The Reason I Live
by Disneymagic
Summary: John thinks Dean is ready to do the research for a hunt of his own.  Sammy may need to grow up in a hurry to help his bother.  Hurt!Dean Protective!Sam Wee!chester Reverse de-aging AU Second story in the Wish 'verse.  Ages Dean 9 Sammy 5 and 24.
1. First Day of School

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: This is the second story in the Wish 'Verse, a sequel to I Wish I was a Growed Up. See, I told you there'd be more. ^.^ In case you haven't read the first one and don't want to, here's a short summary: Young Sammy's wish to be a grown up whenever his big brother, Dean, needed help gets granted by a well-meaning gypsy. The unexpected consequences of the wish cause an unbreakable bond to develop between the brothers. A magical creature, the black imp, attempts to take the wish away from the boys, but is thwarted by John who is then cursed by the imp to forever be in pain when his sons are nearby.**

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 1 First Day of School**

It's Sammy's first day of kindergarten and the kid's so excited he's been babbling non stop since he woke up this morning. Dean would find it kinda cute if he hadn't woken up at five o'clock, before the sun had even begun to lighten the edges of the sky, and insisted that Dean get up too by bouncing up and down on the older boy's bed.

Before the youngster could accidentally wake up their dad, Dean had scooted out of bed and quickly found some crayons and paper to keep Sammy quietly occupied until it was time for breakfast.

"Do you think my teacher'll be nice, Dean? I colored a picture for her 'cause I really want her to like me. Do you think she'll like me?" The little boy shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, milk dribbling off his chin, and peers up at his older brother through a mop-top of unruly brown bangs.

"Course she's gonna like you, squirt." A tolerant smile tugs Dean's lips up. He turns away and rolls his eyes, just a little. As if anyone could not like his eager-to-please little brother with his big earnest eyes and dimpled smile. Some sappy kindergarten teacher isn't gonna know what hit her when Sammy unleashes the full force of his puppy look on her.

Dean's glad Sammy's excited about starting school even though Dean himself isn't nearly as excited about his first day of fourth grade.

The good thing is that the town they're staying in is small enough to only have one elementary school and grades kindergarten through fifth grade all go to the same school. He'll be able to walk to and from school with Sammy and watch out for his little brother during the day if he has to. There are bound to be times when they'll pass in the hall or maybe see each other at recess so he can check up and make sure Sammy's doing all right. Not that he's overprotective like some hovering _mom_ who can't stand to see their little angel start school, or anything. That would just be stupid.

The bad thing is that in a town this small all of the kids in his class will already know each other and Dean is sure he'll stick out like even more of a sore thumb than he usually does in a new school. Not something to look forward to.

Both boys have new backpacks – well, new to them anyway. Dad had picked them up at the thrift store along with a couple sets of clothes decent enough for school for each of them. Sammy is so proud of his blue backpack that he's wearing it while sitting on the stool pulled up to the counter, eating the breakfast Dean made for him. Even though there isn't much in the bag to weigh it down, only the picture for his teacher at this point, it still makes the small boy look unbalanced and top heavy. Dean wonders how Sammy's going to manage once he begins loading school books into the thing. Hopefully there won't be too much homework, if any, assigned to the kindergarten class.

Dean's black backpack sits by the front door looking forlorn and unwanted.

When it's time to leave, Dean puts their cereal bowls in the sink, wipes down the counter, and hands Sammy a napkin for his chin.

"Can I tell dad 'bye'?" Sammy asks while slipping off the stool.

"Nah, he'll know we've gone to school when he gets up." Dean decides.

He knows better than to wake their dad up when he'd been out late the night before. The man has been cranky lately, short-tempered during training sessions, and he seems to stay away from home more and more often, can't even seem to stand to touch either one of his boys, which is…weird. It's not as though their stoic father is the touchy, feely, huggy type, but some amount of touching used to be par for the course, especially during training. Adjusting a weapon grip here or manually correcting a stance there used to be normal operating procedure. Not anymore. Now most training is done with shouted commands from the opposite side of the room and endurance training has been added to the daily routine. Dad sends them off to run laps around the park or swim in the lake if it's warm enough, anything, seemingly, to get his sons away from him.

There's definitely something wrong with his dad and it all seems to have started shortly after their experience with the black imp a little over a year ago. The way their dad rubs his forehead all the time makes Dean uneasy because it looks kinda creepy, like dad's trying to keep something from exploding out of his head. Each time he tries to ask his dad about it though, the man shrugs and says it's nothing, often following up with a gruff command to get started with some chore or another. It's almost enough to make Dean stop asking, almost, but not quite because Dean doesn't have it in him to let someone he cares about suffer without trying to help. He loves his dad and there must be something Dean can do. Maybe Bobby knows something; he'll ask next time he sees the older hunter.

Sammy has certainly noticed their dad's strange behavior. The worried glances and the way he tries extra hard to be quiet when dad gets grouchy, or more grouchy than usual, are sure signs that Sammy is clued in to the wrongness. The kid may be small, but he knows a lot of things other kids his age don't know. There's good reason for that and Dean is one of the few people who knows all about the Wish (he always capitalizes it in his head) and its effects.

What Dean isn't so sure about is how much Sammy remembers about those times when he's all grown up, like during the two weeks around the black imp attack. The two weeks when he was magically aged to twenty-four years old, standing as tall, or even taller, than dad. It's hard for child Sammy to explain what he remembers from those times, about half a dozen of them so far, when his wish to be a grown up whenever his older brother needs help, kicks in and he's instantly transformed into an adult only to regress back to his normal age when the danger or whatever is over.

Dean remembers each and every time pretty vividly however. He remembers what it feels like to have someone big and strong come to his rescue. Someone who puts him first above all else, who would do anything for him, no matter what, who always wants what's best for him, openly shows affection. Someone who is proud of him and loves him. Dean has always been devoted to his baby brother and now the devotion flows both ways. Of course, Sammy loves him when he's a child, probably just as much as when he's an adult, but it feels different coming from a grown up. Dean doesn't know why it's different, it just is.

And then there's his dad. Oh, Dean knows his dad loves him even though he doesn't frequently show affection. But…Dean doesn't entirely trust his father, not anymore, not the way he used to. The reasons for his mistrust hurt deep down inside him and it's not something he likes to think about. Knowing that your own parent might not always choose your well being over everything else leaves a dark mark on a child's soul, leaves a dent in a child's developing self-worth. These concepts fly over Dean's head, he doesn't understand them and he certainly doesn't want to dwell on them, but they are a part of him.

Sammy fills a gaping hole in Dean and he tries his best to pick up whatever slack is left in his little brother's life in return, playing parent and brother and friend and whatever else is needed.

During the mile and a half walk to school, Sammy stops talking for the first time all morning.

"Whatcha thinking about, Sammy?" Dean asks while sensing along the invisible strand of their bond at the same time.

It helps Dean to think about their bond as a string that connects his brother to him at all times. When he wants to experience Sammy's feelings, he has to concentrate real hard on the connection and pull the feelings across the line and into himself.

This 'empathy' as their dad calls it, only developed recently. Dad told them other side effects from the Wish could continue to pop up and they are to let him know right away if anything strange happens. Dean can tell their dad is still not comfortable with the Wish or anything associated with it.

Sammy, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have to concentrate at all or even think about Dean to know what his older brother is feeling, he just knows.

Hiding anything from Sammy is now impossible; Dean has learned not to even attempt it. Part of him wants to be annoyed with the empathy part of Sammy's Wish, but another part of him finds it kind of liberating because now there's one person he can be totally open with, one person he doesn't have to guard himself from or keep up some kind of brave face with or pretend with. There's no point, Sammy will feel everything he's feeling no matter what he does.

Right now, his little brother's never-ending excitement is being tempered by a dose of anxiety. Dean waits to hear what's bothering the kid.

"You don't wanna go to school, today. How come?" The little boy's eyebrows draw together in a concerned knot.

Dean should have realized Sammy would sense his reluctance to spend a perfectly good day in a classroom around teachers and kids he doesn't know, who don't know about his life and will never understand.

"Eh, school's just not really my thing, ya know? There's lots of other stuff I'd rather be doing. You can still be excited about it though." It would be a shame to ruin his little brother's good mood with his own less than enthusiastic views on learning how to label the parts of a sentence.

"Like what? What would you rather be doing?" His inquisitive little brother wants to know.

Dean thinks on the question for a couple of seconds. "Oh, I dunno." He kicks a stone off the sidewalk and into the grass as they continue walking. "I could help dad with research, practice throwing my knives, stuff like that."

The knives are the latest addition to Dean's training regimen and he thinks they're pretty cool, all shiny and sharp, intriguing in a way that appeals to his boyish sense of danger. Unlike the guns, he's allowed to keep them in his room and practice with them whenever he wants. He can always get to a gun if he _needs_ one, but he's not supposed to practice with them unless dad is nearby.

Sammy gives him a wistful look and then takes his big brother's hand in his smaller one as though he's afraid Dean's going to turn around and go back home without him.

Smiling softly, Dean sends feelings of contentment through the bond to his brother until Sammy starts to skip happily beside him again. Okay, so sometimes he can sort through his feelings and place a little more emphasis on certain ones for Sammy's sake, but the feeling has to be there to some degree to start off or it won't work.

The kindergarten classrooms are at the very front of the building, off a hallway next to the cafeteria. Seeing the cafeteria reminds Dean that Sammy's going to need something to eat for lunch and he completely forgot to pack anything. Luckily, there are a few dollar bills in Dean's pocket, change from the grocery shopping he'd done yesterday. He pulls them out and stuffs them into Sammy's back pants pocket.

"Use that for lunch, squirt." He tells his brother.

Resigned to his own hunger come lunch time, Dean mentally kicks himself for his forgetfulness and stupidity.

Sammy bites his bottom lip nervously, clearly feeling his brother's agitation which only makes Dean angrier at himself. Now he's upsetting Sammy on his first day of school. _Way to go, way to make your little brother pay for your mistakes_, Dean berates himself bitterly. Sometimes it just doesn't seem like he can do anything right.

A small tug on his arm brings his eyes down to meet the younger boy's. "You're the best big brother in the whole wide world, Dean." Sammy fidgets slightly while giving a tentative smile, obvious in his attempt to make his troubled brother feel better.

Recognizing that their linked emotions could quickly spiral out of control, Dean shakes off the self pity, forces himself to think happy thoughts, gives Sammy's hand a reassuring squeeze and leads the youngster down the corridor where all the kindergarten classrooms are located, looking for Sammy's room number.

Kindergarten room 105 is three doors down on the left; Dean counts out loud so his brother can find his way by himself if he ever needs to and points out the bright red apples taped in straight rows on the door, one of which has Sam W. printed on it in black marker.

"Look, Sammy, your name is on the door and everything."

The little boy grins up at his sibling, eyes sparkling like those laminated poster board apples are the most wonderful things he's ever seen.

His breath catches in his throat briefly as Dean watches his brother walk up to the woman behind the teacher's desk, the teacher presumably, and give her the picture he had colored that morning, a proud, radiant smile on his hopeful little face, then the older boy turns and ambles slowly to his own classroom.

Most of the other children are already in their seats when Dean arrives at fourth grade room 512. Twenty-three pairs of curious eyes turn to watch as he stands uncertainly in the doorway so he puts on his trusty devil-may-care expression and saunters over to the nearest empty seat, cool as can be. Slouching down into the chair, Dean makes a point of meeting every stare in turn, oozing confidence. It's important not to invite trouble by appearing to be easy prey, John Winchester's rules to live by number fifteen. More than any of his father's other rules, that one has come in handy during Dean's school career to date.

Dean's first impression of his fourth grade teacher is that she's not the type to put up with anything from anybody including students, parents, or other teachers; you're either doing things her way or you're doing them the wrong way. She writes her name, Mrs. Simon, on the blackboard in big block letters and spends a good forty-five minutes discussing classroom rules, the next half hour telling her students that parents are expected to review and sign every piece of homework before it can be counted as turned in.

"Since _you_ are in fourth grade, your _parents_ are also in fourth grade. I expect a high level of commitment from your parents to your education." She intones as though issuing some kind of royal decree.

Mrs. Simon and his dad are sure to rub each other the wrong way if they ever meet. Dean makes a very quiet scoffing noise. There's no way John Winchester is going to spend his precious time reviewing and signing his first-born son's homework. No problem, it won't be the first time he has forged his father's signature, now he'll be getting lots of practice at it, that's all.

The teacher drones on and Dean stifles a yawn. It had been a long night waiting for his dad to get home from goodness only knows where last night. The man hadn't shared his whereabouts with his oldest son, just inclined his head in greeting on his way to his bedroom when he got home after midnight. The late night coupled with his little brother shaped alarm clock in the morning and the boredom of classroom procedures are all conspiring to make Dean feel muzzy headed.

Lunch time for his class starts at 11:45AM and lasts half an hour. Scanning the cafeteria for signs of Sammy, Dean's shoulders slump when he doesn't see him. Kindergarten classes must eat at a different time. The feelings coming across their bond when he concentrates on it, excitement, happiness, and curiosity, assure him that the youngest Winchester is still enjoying his first day of school.

Without anything to eat to keep his hands and mind busy, lunch is kind of a lonely period for Dean. He takes the time to inspect the cafeteria, noting all entrances to the large room and watching children and teachers move through the food line, make their selections and take their seats.

Each class has an assigned lunch table. Teachers usher their students into the cafeteria in straight lines, maintaining strict discipline while their charges pick up trays, cartons of milk and chose between chicken nuggets and beefaroni. The whole process is regimented to an unusual degree for an elementary school. Dean should know, he's been to five elementary schools already.

The kids around him eye the empty space in front of Dean with suspicion. Apparently they've never seen one of their classmates skip lunch before.

Eventually, his teacher bends over his shoulder, talking softly in his ear. "If you forgot your lunch today you can get a free cheese sandwich."

Not wanting to bring any more unwanted attention to himself and more than a little bit mortified by the idea of a free cheese sandwich, Dean slumps in his chair. "Nah, I'm not hungry." He drawls lazily, hoping to give the impression of being utterly unconcerned. It's the truth; he's not really all that hungry right now. Later he will be, but it's still pretty early in the day, breakfast only a couple of hours behind him.

Mrs. Simon looks him up and down as if she's trying to determine if he's malnourished by what little of him she can see under his loose fitting school clothes before turning to walk back to the teachers' table.

As soon as she's gone, the volume at his table goes up a notch or two as his classmates resume their stalled conversations. Dean's attention is caught by two boys across the table from him when he hears the one wearing a blue and white striped shirt say, "Yeah, he's been missing for a long time. He's a goner for sure."

Dean recognizes the boy speaking from his reading group that morning. His name is Grant and he's a bit of a know-it-all, loves to be the center of attention. The other boy sits up near the front of the class and Dean doesn't remember his name. He's a skinny boy with black hair, olive skin tone and glasses.

Behind his glasses, the second boy's eyes get big and round. "What do you mean a goner?"

"My brother says there's a monster that lives under our school. He says it's huge, with giant fangs and tentacles for arms." Grant accompanies his description with hand gestures so exaggerated he almost knocks a carton of milk out of the hand of the girl sitting beside him. "He says anyone who even looks at it gets so scared they can't move a muscle. I bet the monster got him." Sitting back in his chair, Grant crosses his arms in front of his chest, a superior expression on his face.

"Nuh uh, there's no such thing as monsters." The skinny kid disagrees.

A scowl settles on Grant's face. "Well, my brother says there is and I believe him. He's in high school." This last is said as though it solves everything.

"Hold on." Dean interrupts, sitting forward and putting his elbows on the table. "Who's missing and what does this have to do with a monster?"

Monsters are certainly real and if there's one anywhere near the school, Dean needs to find out as much about it as he can so he can tell his dad. There's no way he's letting Sammy go to school somewhere dangerous.

To be continued.

**A/N: Thank you for reading. If you have the time, I'd love to hear from you!**


	2. Dean Needs a Nap and a Snack

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Sorry it has taken me so long between chapters, I hope not to have such a long break again. Please forgive me.**

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 2 Dean Needs a Nap and a Snack**

When the end of day bell rings Dean is out the door and down the hallway before most of the other kids have even hopped up from their desks yet. If Mrs. Simon calls out for him to remain seated until she has dismissed the class he definitely doesn't hear her. Honest.

The last five minutes had seemed like a lifetime while he watched the second hand on the large clock above the teacher's desk make its way ever so slowly around the plain black and white clock face. It's almost as though the darn thing was taunting him and at one point he could swear it ticked backwards a couple of strokes before resuming its forward motion. He wonders if clocks can be possessed by evil spirits. They probably can.

Although he fortunately hadn't been hungry at 11:45AM for his non-existent lunch, by the time 2:30PM rolls around he's starving, stomach threatening to turn itself inside out. Also, his nearly sleepless night is catching up with him and he's having a hard time keeping his eyes from sliding shut. But most importantly he has a bunch of information about a certain monster he's anxious to talk over with his dad as soon as he gets home.

Sammy's class is lined up neatly at the door waiting for the teacher to separate them into parent pick-up and bus riding groups. Leaning up against the white painted cinder block wall opposite Sammy's classroom door, Dean waits for his little brother to notice him. It doesn't take long.

A wide grin brightens his little brother's face while he waves a pudgy hand enthusiastically. All expectations of Sammy rapidly having his teacher wrapped around his little finger are proven true as the kid turns his grin on the woman, says something Dean can't make out over the chattering of the rest of the class and points at him through the open doorway. She nods and pats Sammy on the head.

Scrambling out the door and up to Dean, lugging his backpack behind him, Sammy starts talking immediately. "I told Miss Bridget you were my big brother and you were here to get me so we can walk home together." He beams.

"That's your teacher? Miss Bridget?" Dean asks, wanting to make sure he gets the right name and face memorized. After all, if there are any problems he can't take care of himself he needs to know who to go to. Most problems Sammy might have with school, Dean anticipates being able to handle without interference, still it doesn't hurt to have options and being prepared is as much a Winchester credo as it is for the boy scouts.

"Yup, she's really nice, too." Sammy's nose scrunches up and he gets this funny cross-eyed look on his face. "Dennis and Teddy said I couldn't play with them at recess, but Miss Bridget said I could and then she made them share the soccer ball with me and I kicked a goal!" The rambling narrative pauses as Sammy stops to catch his breath so Dean jumps in before he can get going again.

"Cool, squirt. Let's start walking and you can tell me all about it on the way home, how's that?" Putting a hand between his brother's shoulder blades, he steers the smaller boy down the now crowded hallway and out the double doors of the school building.

Just as expected, Sammy's backpack is bulging with goodness only knows what. "What have you got in your backpack, Sammy, your entire desk?" Dean teases.

"Nuh uh." Sammy gives him a lopsided smile to show he knows he's being teased. "We got books from the library and Miss Bridget let me take three." He holds up three fingers and the tone of his voice clearly says this is a good thing although Dean can't for the life of him figure out why getting more books would be considered a plus except that it's his little brother talking and the kid has always been kind of weird.

They walk past block after block of tiny houses with patchy white-washed picket fences, tricycles and other toys littering the yards. Several of the houses have angry looking mutts chained to trees or porch railings. Invariably the dogs seem to feel it's their duty to run until they reach the end of the chain link tethers to bark aggressively at anyone who dares walk too close to their territory. Each time, Dean pulls Sammy as far away from the house as the sidewalk will allow, puts himself between the dog and his younger brother and keeps the kid walking, not running, past the house without making eye contact with the snarling and snapping animal. He doesn't completely trust the strength of the chains to hold the dogs back and he feels better if he can provide just that much additional boundary between any potential danger and Sammy.

Even though all the chains do their job, catching the dogs up short each and every time, he can't help but think that his knives would be a welcome weight in his backpack right about now, certainly much more useful against an attacking dog than the history book and pad of paper it currently contains. Yeah, school and the stuff he's learning there are about as useful as a poke in the eye, Dean thinks morosely.

Sammy doesn't pay much attention to the dogs, oblivious to the threat, allows himself to be moved wherever Dean needs him to be as though it's perfectly normal and, for him, it is. This young version of Sammy is used to taking his leads from his big brother and trusting Dean to take care of most situations. In fact, the flow of words barely slows during the entire walk home as Sammy recounts every part of his day in great detail, telling his older brother about who he sat with at lunch, who was nice to him, who was mean, what book the teacher read to them during story circle, and how many crayons he was given to complete his picture of the letter 'A".

Dean tries to make appropriately interested noises at all the right places while he thinks about everything he learned from his interrogations of his classmates. If Sammy can sense through their bond that his brother is distracted and only half-way paying attention, he doesn't let on.

After getting everything he could out of Grant, Dean had checked with other students to see if anyone else had ever heard about a monster of some kind living nearby. Almost all of them had. It seems that the monster is common knowledge among school aged children, at least if Dean's classmates are anything to go by. He'd found out that tales of mysterious goings-on and strange sightings have been passed along from older siblings to younger siblings with all the devote sincerity of a sidewalk fanatic spouting the Lord's own gospel to anyone who will stop and listen. Those students who don't have older brothers or sisters usually hear of the monster through friends, like Grant.

Dean's hackles are up and his spidey-senses are tingling. He's not sure why the adults in this town haven't sounded the alarm, but such wide spread local lore can't possibly exist without having some basis. One thing he's learned over the years is to believe the unbelievable. Dad has definitely gotten riled up over a lot less, dropped everything to run off to one small town or another on only a hint of information, and here Dean has uncovered enough to fill five entire pages of notebook paper with jotted notes on the stories he's heard in one day alone. Dad's gonna to be impressed.

The front door of the apartment they're renting opens directly onto a small foyer with the kitchen on one side and the living room on the other. Dean catches their dad's wince as soon as they get through the front door. Whether it's because of the way the door slams behind Sammy or simply due to their sudden presence Dean doesn't know, but he has his suspicions. He's seen that look on the man's face far too often.

Dad is sitting hunched over at the wobbly, wooden kitchen table that serves as a research space more than as an eating area seeing as how they don't all three sit down to eat formal meals together very often. If dad's not with them the boys usually eat at the kitchen counter or in the living room in front of the TV.

"Hey, dad." Dean greets his father, pleased to see the man doesn't appear to be busy. This means he has an opportunity to discuss his day's findings right off the bat and have dad's full attention. "You'll never guess what I learned in school today." His backpack comes off his shoulder easily and clunks onto the kitchen counter.

"Not right now, Dean. I need you kids to get started on your training immediately." Their father looks at Dean and then at Sammy, catching them both in the severity of his gaze, as if they needed reminding of how serious he takes their training. "Just because school's started doesn't give either one of you a pass on your usual schedule. Today's Monday which means target practice and I want you to do sprints as well when we get to the field."

"But dad, I-"

"Later, Dean. I promise you can tell me all about school after dinner." With a weary sigh, dad heaves himself up from the kitchen chair and herds his sons out to the Impala.

It's a disappointment, of course it is, Dean had really thought his father would be interested in his news. The dismissal feels like rejection and as much as Dean wants to believe the man's promise to listen after dinner, he can't help the bitter twinge in his gut and the thought that something else will probably come up just like it always seems to whenever Dean wants his father's attention.

A quick glance at Sammy once they're in the car shows a frown on the boy's face as he stares at the back of dad's head over the bench seat. If looks could kill, this one wouldn't be fatal, but it would probably hurt quite a bit.

Dean scoots over until he can bump arms with his brother, tries to distract him from his scowling campaign. It doesn't take a genius to know that the younger boy is upset on his behalf and that's just not right.

Target practice means shooting cans in the fallow field on the outskirts of town, nearly every small town has a similar area. It takes them about fifteen minutes to drive there.

Five years old is old enough to learn how to handle firearms in John Winchester's book and on Sammy's fifth birthday he'd received his first lesson. He's not a bad shot; Dean's better though because Dean has several year's of practice on him and has graduated from stationary targets to moving ones.

Once they get out to the field, the boys start a series of sprints while dad moves across to a remote section of land, far enough from the road to be hidden by a small rise, and sets up a pulley system from a tree so he can dangle a can from a piece of rope for Dean to shoot at.

Sprinting can be fun if you know how. Dean can make just about anything into a game, knows how to make anything fun. Not only does it help him get through the exercises himself, but it also makes his younger brother easier to handle. Even good kids have their moments and Sammy has his share.

"Bet you a piggy back ride you can't beat your best time." Dean sing-songs the taunt while wiggling the stop watch in the air and raising his eyebrows in a question to see if Sammy will accept the challenge. A piggy-back ride almost always works as a reward, although at five years old Sammy's weight is getting to be more of a strain on Dean's back than he'll ever admit.

This time is no exception and the little boy's brown curls bob around his face when he nods his head eagerly, crouching down in his slightly-comical version of a runner's stance when Dean yells out, "on your mark…get set…GO!"

Dean clicks the button to start the timer and Sammy takes off, pumping his short legs as fast as they'll go. The course dad set up for them includes a straight section, a zig-zag through a stand of birch trees, and a double back to the starting point. Every situation is a learning opportunity to their dad and this sprinting track mirrors his cautions to 'never be predictable, always leave your opponent guessing and never allow the enemy to outmaneuver you'. The words ring in Dean's ears as he watches his younger brother take the tree obstacle with ease. The kid's getting better and better every time they do this.

"Atta boy!" He calls out, pride evident in his voice. "Comin' into the home stretch now, squirt!"

Sliding across the imaginary finish line, Sammy looks up expectantly. "How was that? Faster than last time?"

"Yup, you shaved another 5 seconds off your best time."

"Yes!" A small fist lifts in triumph and Dean laughs as his little brother rushes over to clamber gracelessly onto his back for his victory piggy back ride.

Two times around the sprinting course and Dean has to stop, leaning over to rest his elbows on his thighs and letting Sammy slide down to the ground. He'd forgotten how low his energy reserves were after having missed lunch earlier today, growing boy and all that.

"Your turn now, Dean." Dad says, coming up behind them, scooping up the stop watch from where Dean had dropped it and brandishing it with all the seriousness on an Olympic track coach.

Nothing makes him more nervous than his father when the man looks at him the way he is right now, intense and apprising, as though measuring his worth like a fish just on the verge of being too small, like there's every chance he'll be thrown back into the pond if he can't meet expectations.

He's not up to his best effort at the moment and he knows it, but there's no use trying to explain to his dad that he needs a nap and a snack. And doesn't that make him sound like a whinny baby? Excuses are never tolerated even when they aren't excuses at all. He still thinks about giving it a try anyway, just because the disapproval is so hard to see blossoming on his father's face.

Instead he wets his lower lip with his tongue and gets ready to run.

It comes as no surprise when he gets back from his sprint only to hear his dad say, "You can do better than that, son." And sure enough, there's the reproachful glare. "If you're not going to even try we may as well go home now."

It feels like acid is burning its way down his throat because, he _knows_ he can do better and he wishes more than anything that he could just tell his father why he didn't do better. The follow up question will only bring more criticism though. _Why didn't you remember to pack a lunch for your brother on his first day of school, Dean? _Better to accept the accusation of not trying hard enough than to have to answer that particular question.

Ducking his head so he misses the full impact of the glare of doom, Dean breathes heavily through his open mouth. "Yes, sir. I'll do better next time." He pants.

He should have seen it coming, felt his brother's anger building, he really should have, but when Sammy steps up next to him, eyes flashing, it comes as a complete surprise.

"Don't be mean, dad, you're hurting Dean's feelings." The younger boy announces.

Ugh, really? It doesn't get much more embarassing than having your little brother try to defend you to your dad. Curse that empathic bond anyway. Dean looks around for a hole to jump into. Unfortunately, there are none big enough to cover him up.

Dad stares at Sammy for a minute then shakes his head like he's not sure what to make of his youngest son and, without acknowledging the outburst, resets the stop watch, preparing to time Dean's second attempt.

A dry wind blows, kicking up some dust which drifts through the air in careless eddies before settling back onto the untended ground. The air smells faintly of fertilizer and growing things in the wind's wake.

As soon as his dad yells "GO" for the second time Dean forces himself to forget about how tired he is and run like his very life depends on it. He imagines himself as a jet airplane, all jets firing at once, wind at his back pushing him along even faster. Every other thought and idea falls away and all that's left are his feet pounding as fast as he can possibly make them go and his pure determination. He goes for broke, using every ounce of energy available to him and leaving nothing for latter.

On the edge of his awareness he hears Sammy's voice. "go Dean, go!" If he could spare a glance he knows he'd see his little brother jumping up and down and cheering him on.

His momentum takes him way past the finish line and when he comes to a stop he has to stand very still and blink quickly to clear the black spots swimming in his vision.

"That's more like it. Much closer to what I know you're capable of." Dad says, flicking the button on the stop watch. "You know Dean, you have to treat every one of these exercises as if they're life or death situations. Slouching you're way through isn't going to help anybody, least of all yourself." The last of these comments is issued over his back as the man moves across the field toward the targets he has set up for them to shoot. There isn't any question in his mind as to whether or not his kids will follow behind him.

Typical. Dad doesn't ask if there might have been a reason for the slower time and Dean really wishes he hadn't tried to spare the energy the first time around because the end result is the same, he feels vaguely light-headed and weak, but now dad thinks he was deliberately slacking off. Well, live and learn, he won't be making that mistake again.

The target shooting goes much better. It takes very little energy to stand still and fire a gun at a target, even a moving one. Dean has had fantastic hand/eye coordination from the first time he was handed a gun and shooting has always come naturally to him. This is the one area of his life where he excels and can reasonably expect to get some positive attention from his father. There are things the man thinks are worth doing and things he thinks are completely lacking any merit. He's free and easy with his opinion of those things he sees no use for, Dean has plenty of experience in listening to those rants.

Learning to shoot well is one of the things dad believes is worth doing and when Dean hits the targets – which move more and more erratically as the practice continues – without missing a single one he gets a "Nicely done!" from his dad and a high five from his little brother who thinks giving and receiving a high five makes him cooler than cool.

The praise warms him up from the inside out and he's able to ride the high it provides him all the way through Sammy's turn at target practice and all the way home afterwards.

But by the time they get home and he's thrown something together for dinner his appetite has dwindled to next to nothing. He's only able to pick at his food while he tries to decide how to make dad take his concerns about a monster near their school seriously. The more he goes over it in his mind the more he realizes it just sounds like a bunch of nonsense made up by children. Nothing more than childish imagination. He still believes there's something going on though so convincing his dad is crucial.

Sammy is eating slowly, eyeing Dean constantly like he suspects something is wrong and is trying to figure out what to do about it.

He'd better move quickly before his little brother makes up his mind.

"Hey Dad?" Tapping his fingers quietly on the counter top, Dean waits for his father to swallow the mouthful of food he'd been chewing.

"What's up, Dean?"

"I heard some stuff at school today and I think there's something going on in this town…like our kind of something." He holds his breath and hopes for some sign to continue.

Dad looks up, interested, scratching the side of his face where his beard meets his cheekbone. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, the kids at school were talking about someone going missing and there are lots of stories about people seeing some kind of monster. I wrote some of them down just in case you wanted to see." The notebook he has clutched in his fingers trembles slightly and Dean puts it down on the kitchen table in front of his father, giving it a little push forward until it rests next to his glass of water.

"A monster, huh?" Dad's lips twitch at the corners and Dean's hopes plummet. He must sound just as childish and stupid as he feared because dad obviously doesn't believe him.

Dean looks down at his fingers twisting together in his lap. "Yeah." He all but whispers.

Sammy squirms uncomfortably in his stool at the kitchen counter.

"I have a hunt I'm already working on." Dad indicates the papers spread out on the table under his dinner plate and tacked up on the kitchen wall to his left. "And I can't stop in the middle of one hunt to start another, right?"

Dad flips through the notebook with one hand, too quickly to actually read anything Dean had written, and then turns thoughtful eyes on him. For a moment, Dean doesn't see his father at all, instead he sees cold calculation leveled at him through a hunter's emotionless eyes. It isn't the first time.

"But you have a good start here. This is a great opportunity for you to do the research for your own hunt. Keep working on it and let me know what you come up with." And with that Dad pushes the notebook back across the table.

Maybe Dean should feel like dad's just being condescending, but he doesn't. He's happy, thrilled even, like he's been elevated from padawan to full jedi status. Like he's been given the keys to the city. Because this is permission. Permission to hunt on his own. Thoughts of doing his own research, finding the monster all by himself, showing his dad what he really is capable of, and saving anyone else from being taken bubble up and he feels invincible, powerful, important. For the first time ever he thinks he has a shot at making his dad truly proud. For the first time ever he thinks he might be able to make a difference.

His very own hunt!

To be continued.

**A/N: I know this chapter was a bit boring and a lot of set up. Next chapter should explode with some action. That's the plan anyway. As always, thanks for reading and leaving your feedback.**


	3. Nothing's Ever Easy

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you to all you wonderful readers out there. I appreciate you more than I can say. I'm rather fond of this chapter and I hope you like it as well.**

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 3 Nothing's Ever Easy**

There are several steps and types of research needed for a successful hunt. Dean has seen his dad interviewing witnesses, gathering local histories from libraries, heck he's even gone along to stake out possible haunt locations to get a feel for what his hunter father is going to be up against. He knows what kinds of things he needs to do and his brain is buzzing with the excitement of tackling it all on his own.

Lying in his bed and staring through the gloom at the crack in the ceiling, he goes over the information he'd already gathered from his classmates during the day and plots his next move. Even though his body is exhausted, he's nowhere near sleepy anymore. Apparently there's a world of difference between being physically exhausted and being able to sleep, but he's going to need to sleep if wants to put his plans for his hunt into action tomorrow.

Dean sighs, turns over onto his side and fluffs his pillow a couple of times as if it's just a matter of getting more comfortable. Truth is, his mind is working over-time and no matter how comfortable his bed is he can't force his racing thoughts to slow down enough to allow him to drift off.

Actually seeing the monster with his own two eyes will be the best way to figure out what he's dealing with. Other people have seen the thing and walked away so there's no reason to think he can't do the same. Once he's seen the monster it'll be a lot easier to figure out what it is and then he'll be able to work out a way to get rid of it. Maybe dad will help him come up with a plan.

His heart speeds up at the thought until it's galloping like a race horse inside his chest. Sammy stirs uneasily in the bed next to his and Dean puts both hands over his thumping heart as though he can quiet the noise and keep it from waking his brother up. Of course, he knows it's not the sound of his heart that's disturbing Sammy's sleep but the out-of-control emotion being transmitted along their link. 'Calm down' he thinks to himself, willing the adrenaline to stop pumping and his rapidly beating heart to slow. Despite his best efforts it's well past two o'clock by the time he finally falls asleep.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The early morning sun gives him just enough light to get dressed without turning on the lamp. Making lunches for school is his number one priority, there's no way he's allowing that idiotic mistake to happen again, and Dean sets to work immediately. An apple, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a couple of cookies in each paper bag completes the task nicely.

He wants to get to school early today because after thinking about it for most of the night he's decided to try looking around the school grounds to see if he can find the basement. At least three of the kids he'd talked to yesterday mentioned the school basement in their tales and since the school is easily assessable to him that seems like it might be a good place to start. The earlier he gets there the more time he'll have to snoop around, hopefully without drawing too much suspicion. Not all the sightings happened near the school and the high school student who went missing last week wasn't anywhere near the elementary school, still he has to start somewhere. All he needs is a clue, something to go on that will help with his research, something to show his dad as proof that he can do this.

For whatever reason Sammy hadn't acted like an alarm clock this morning and is still fast asleep even after the lunches have been packed securely in their backpacks. "Hey squirt, time to get up and get ready for school." Dean calls softly, waits a moment and then shakes his little brother's shoulder gently, trying again. "Sammy, come on, don't want to be late do you?"

That does the trick. The smaller boy blinks confused eyes at him a couple of times before sitting up with a slow smile, something close to wonder crossing his face. "Am I going to school today, Dean?" He asks as if yesterday might have been a one day only fluke or a really realistic dream.

"Yup, that's the way school works remember, it's every day except Saturday and Sunday."

"Oh, yeah." He says happily and scoots to the edge of the bed so he can climb out.

Dean has to remind him to brush his hair and teeth, but other than that Sammy is able to get himself dressed and takes great pride in pouring his cereal into a bowl. Dean pours the milk, of course. It's just easier that way, avoids the spill and the clean up.

Sammy is just as thrilled about school today as he was yesterday. The small boy trots into his classroom without saying a word about their early arrival and wearing a huge dimpled grin for his teacher as if he hadn't a care in the world. Dean thinks his own excitement is probably coming off as second day of school jitters instead of the uncertain nervousness of his first hunt that is actually making his lungs feel as though they can't quite keep up with his body's demand for oxygen. He's profoundly grateful when Sammy doesn't question the emotions he knows must be radiating strongly along their bond. He feels as though he must be glowing like a neon sign he's so charged up.

It's kind of amazing how Sammy takes the constant press of his older brother's emotions in his stride, how he simply accepts the burden as a normal part of life. And he doesn't act like he doesn't want to know how Dean is feeling every second of every day or like it bothers him in any way. Dean's not sure what he'd do if he had to sort through some one else's feelings all the time. He only has to know what Sammy's feeling when he actively seeks out the added contact.

Shaking his head, Dean walks away from his little brother's classroom, a warm smile still on his lips.

The institutional looking clock on the wall in the hallway says he has about twenty minutes until the tardy bell rings. Plenty of time to scout around for the stairs down to the basement.

Both teachers and students walk briskly past him. In order to fit in Dean picks up his pace, gives his movements more purpose. He trails his hand along the wall while softly humming some song he's heard on the radio the other day and no one spares him a second glance.

The basement is easy to find, too easy actually. A sign on the door reads 'STAIRS in large block letters. Remembering all the grumbling he's heard from his father about how nothing can ever be easy, Dean feels let down. He's obviously not doing this right, he must be on the wrong track here otherwise the basement would have been a lot harder to find, concealed in some manner. If it was this easy to find the monster's hiding spot surely the adults would have seen it by now, there would be more of a town-wide panic instead of just rumors from a bunch of kids. He may only be nine years old, but Dean has seen far too many things go wrong in his dad's hunts to believe in this kind of luck. Still, he has nothing to lose by taking a look.

With one hand on the door knob Dean glances around quickly. No one is nearby. It comes as a complete shock to him, therefore, when a crisp and by now familiar voice calls, "Dean, what are you doing?"

Where just a second ago Dean could have sworn the space was empty, now his teacher, Ms. Simon, hovers behind him. He's so startled his whole body jerks and he turns to meet her glare, face turning what he's sure must be a brilliant shade of red. Way to blend in and not draw any attention, he berates himself.

He decides to go with his tried and true answer for these circumstances. "N-nothing." The little stammer catches him off guard and he must look about ten types of guilty because his teacher's eyebrows bunch together and the frown lines around her mouth deepen.

Darn it, he's usually much better at talking his way out of trouble than this.

His hand falls from the door knob and he shuffles sideways, making sure he's out of her reach just in case she decides to put a stop to his escape. "I'll just…go now. Bye." He mutters, trying out a sheepish smile while continuing to back away. The school library is around the nearest corner so he heads in that direction and hopes Ms. Simon will think that's where he was trying to go all along.

He ducks inside and counts to ten before peeking back out into the hallway. The coast is clear and twelve minutes remain until he needs to be in his classroom. Having avoided an obstacle, Dean feels oddly better about his idea of checking out the basement. It seems more likely that there may be something down there now that he's had to work for it a little bit.

This time no one stops him when he slips unseen into the basement stairwell.

The only light comes from the open door and even though he sees the light switch within easy reach he doesn't flick it on. Leaving the door open the tiniest of cracks, Dean pulls his trusty flashlight out of the side pocket of his backpack where he had placed it with this mission in mind before leaving for school.

At the bottom of the stairs he looks back up to check the sliver of light from the slightly open door is still visible. A sense of calm filters through him at the sight of the crack. Safety is only a flight of stairs away.

By the beam from his flashlight he can see he's in a large storage room. Metal shelves stacked high with dusty boxes line the walls. On the outside of each box black marker labels the contents. Some of them have teacher's names written on them, but most of them seem to contain supplies for lesson plans of one kind or another; solar system models, food group pyramids, and colonial costumes to name just a few. Nothing catches his eye as being out of place or unusual.

There are two doors leading out of the room, one is directly opposite the stairs and the other is on the wall furthest away from the stairs almost hidden by a pile of gigantic gingerbread men made out of card board. Their painted eyes seem to watch him hungrily in the scanty light of his flashlight as he moves around the room. A little creepy, but not enough to throw Dean off his game. They're probably just stage decorations for the holiday pageants all school administrators seem to enjoy putting their students through in December.

Since he only has time to check out one more room, Dean decides on the one behind the gingerbread men which looks as though it isn't used very often. The extra layer of dust makes it seem a more likely candidate for his search. He's trying to find a monster after all, not decorations for a play about Hansel and Gretel. The creepier the better as far as he's concerned.

The smell that assails him as soon as he opens the door makes his eyes water. It smells of rot and decay, death and decomposition. The air is thick, moist and heavy. His flashlight doesn't penetrate the gloom, in fact the stream of light seems to reflect back at him, revealing nothing.

Dean's heart leaps up into his throat, choking him with fear. He's seen nothing, heard nothing, and yet an unreasoning terror grips him and he stumbles backwards, tripping over card board. It's just the smell, that awful stench. The flashlight falls from his nerveless fingers. His head is swimming and he can't breathe, every breath of air he takes is blocked, never reaching his lungs. Scrabbling frantically, he finds his feet and runs back to the stairs, guided by the faint glimmer of light from the hallway beyond the top step.

Before he can set foot on the first stair and begin his climb the door at the top of the steps closes with a click, extinguishing the light and his chance for safety. The only thing he can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears. He's doomed. He's doomed. He's doomed.

He thinks he screams for help. He thinks he makes it to the head of the stairs and bangs on the door. He thinks something grabs his ankle and pulls. He thinks his head hits the stairs on the way down. He knows he sobs out his brother's name in desperation.

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Sammy is on the playground where his teacher had told him to go to wait for class to start when he feels the first little jab of fear. The low hum of excitement had been pretty much a constant all morning and he hadn't thought too much about it. Sometimes it was difficult for him to tell which emotions were coming from him and which were coming from his older brother, especially if they were both feeling the same thing and Sammy had been excited about school so excitement was nothing unusual. But this, this fear is definitely not coming from him. There's nothing scary about jumping rope, frustrating maybe because he keeps getting tangled up, but not scary. No it's not coming from him and that means it's coming from Dean. Dean's scared.

Looking around, he sees a secluded spot at the side of the school building where no one else is playing. Dad had told him that the Wish and everything about it were family secrets; don't tell anyone, don't talk about it, and for God's sake Sammy, never, never, _never_, let anyone see you change. He doesn't always have a choice in the matter, but he takes that first jolt of fear as a warning sign and hunkers down against the cool brick where no one can see him.

He tries to get more information from his link with his brother, closes his eyes tight and thinks about Dean as hard as he can. It doesn't work. The fear is gone leaving a steady but distant trail of anxiety which could mean anything really. Dean feels anxious from time to time, it's something that Sammy has gotten used to and although he doesn't like it there's usually nothing he can do about it. Sometimes Dean is anxious about Dad, sometimes about money, and sometimes about Sammy. He wishes he understood why Dean gets anxious. It sure would make it easier for him to help.

A couple of minutes pass and he's just about to go back to his jump rope, resolving to ask his big brother about what happened after school, when he gets slammed by what feels like a solid wall of terror. The force of it rocks him backwards and he's not surprised in the least to find himself lying on the asphalt, long muscular arms and legs sprawled every which way.

Anguish all his own slices into him, sharp and painful.

Nononono, not again Dean, not again.

To be continued.

**A/N: Muahahahahah, those of you who have read my other stories know how addicted I am to cliffhangers.**

**Feedback is cherished and loved. If you're still in the holiday spirit, please leave me the gift of your review. Thanks!**


	4. Coming to do Battle with the Monster

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**Warning: Although there's no real violence in this chapter, the monster has Dean and it's not pleasant for him at all. This is a warning for general squickiness.**

**A/N: Happy New Year! I couldn't stand to leave things the way they were after the last chapter so I got down to business and wrote this chapter pretty quickly. Unfortunately, things haven't improved for Dean. Oops! This chapter is short, but a lot happens. As always, thanks for reading.**

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 4 Come to do Battle with the Monster in the Basement**

The worst part isn't the all-consuming, mind-blowing terror, although that part is pretty bad. But no, the worst part is when the terror abruptly stops. It's as if Dean is screaming in his head and then the screaming cuts off leaving an empty silence in its wake, a silence that can only mean one thing, catastrophe. Because the terror doesn't gradually fade as though Dean has realized there's no reason to be afraid, it doesn't morph into some other emotion like relief or embarrassment, nope the terror is just suddenly gone. Dean is _gone_.

Breath hitching urgently, Sammy climbs to his feet. He feels like an awkward colt and has to take a few precious seconds to flex his arms, get used to the strength and power of his adult body, let his mind adjust to more mature thought processes.

The nature of his Wish always throws him directly into the heat of a crisis and he struggles a bit at first, but there's no time to waste on accommodating his need to adapt. Dean's in trouble and this time Sam doesn't even know where to find him or what kind of trouble he's in. All he knows is that Dean was here at the school no more than thirty minutes ago so the school grounds are now his personal crime scene and he's not going to rest until he's found his brother. No other options exist.

Impatient with himself, Sam hurries into the building and realizes he has no clue where Dean's classroom is located. His brother had dropped him off and picked him up and Sam had never bothered to find out where Dean was spending his school hours, had never even asked Dean his teacher's name. The thought makes him feel as low as dirt because it had simply never occurred to his five year old self to ask. Whether being five is a reasonable justification or not isn't important to him at the moment.

He storms down the hallway, intent on tearing the place apart, just as the tardy bell rings. The last teacher disappears into a classroom, shutting the door behind her, and the halls are empty. There's no one left to answer his questions, but that's okay, the abandoned corridors work just as well for him, no one to interfere with his search.

Temporarily at a loss for where to start, he contemplates barging into each classroom one by one until he finds his brother's class. After all, it won't really matter if he causes an uproar among the students and teachers as long as Dean is in one piece when he's found. He debates whether he should go home to enlist his father's aid in the search and quickly rejects the idea. It'll take too long.

Dread is eating away at his insides. The longer he stands undecided in the hall the tenser his muscles become until he thinks he's going to turn into one massive seething knot. There's still no emotion coming from his bond with Dean, not even the subconscious emotions he can usually sense when Dean is lightly sleeping.

He refuses to consider the unthinkable. Dean isn't dead, there has to be some other explanation. He bites into his lower lip, hard, letting the pain ground him before his thoughts can cycle into despair.

The logical side of his brain finally kicks into gear. He can at least limit his search to the fourth grade wing to start off. By scanning the signs at each intersection he locates the fourth grade classrooms, knocks on each door and asks for Dean Winchester. The teachers shake their heads and give him quizzical looks until he reaches room number 512 where the teacher steps out of the classroom into the hall and shuts the door, telling her students to continue reading chapter two on her way out.

"Are you his parent or guardian? We aren't allowed to give you any student information unless you're on file." She looks at him over the top of the glasses perched on the tip of her nose and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to read the non-verbal message she's sending. 'You're interrupting my class and I'm much too busy to deal with the likes of you.'

He almost makes a mistake, he almost tells her Dean is his brother, but in the nick of time he catches himself. Employing his most earnest and heartfelt gaze, he pleads, "I'm his uncle, Sam Winchester, and it's an emergency. Please, is he in your class?"

He can see the moment she relents in the slope of her shoulders. "Dean didn't come to my class this morning, but I saw him near the stairs to the basement before school began." A calculating glint enters her eyes. "I thought it was strange for him to be there. Is something wrong?"

It clicks the instant the words leave her mouth. The basement. Dad told Dean last night to continue looking into some strange stories about monsters he'd heard from his classmates. He wishes he'd listened to what they were talking about more closely, but he'd mostly been distracted by the range of emotions emanating from his bond with his brother and by the end of their discussion Dean had been really happy so Sammy hadn't been too concerned about what was going on.

He curses his five year old attention span, growling his irritation and wondering when he'd begun to think of himself in terms of his child self and his adult self, as if he were two separate people.

That's not important though. What is important is that if Dean was looking into tall tales involving monsters, the basement would be a pretty legitimate place to start.

He realizes the teacher is waiting for some kind of response from him and shakes his head. "I hope not. Thanks for your help."

Dean's backpack is lying halfway down the flight of stairs. He recognizes the scuffed black canvas immediately. It's the first thing he sees when he opens the door to the basement and flicks the light switch.

"Dean! It's me Sam. You down here?" He means to sound strong and capable, reassuring, instead his voice comes out in a gasp, barely enough air behind it to be heard beyond the last step. Reaching down to retrieve his brother's backpack, he clears his throat and tries again. "Dean? Where are you?"

His ears strain against the silence, listening, listening, holding his breath least he miss the faintest hint of a sound.

No sound comes.

In the basement by an open door he finds Dean's flashlight. There are no distinguishing marks on this particular flashlight, but Sam knows it belongs to Dean as surely as he knows Dean was here and Dean was scared and Dean isn't here anymore. His brother was taken by something or someone.

He can almost see the events unfolding in his mind; a brave boy, flashlight in hand his only weapon, come to do battle with the monster in the basement. Or maybe he wasn't planning on fighting the monster, perhaps he only wanted to catch a glimpse of it. That would make more sense seeing as how Dean is smart enough not to go into battle without the proper tools and he had none of the customary hunting gear with him, not even his beloved knives.

If he had been trying to get in and get out without alerting the monster that would explain why he'd needed the flashlight and hadn't turned on the basement light.

The faintest whiff of foul air floats through the open doorway and Sam is gripped by an unreasoning fear, the same type of fear he'd felt from Dean earlier. It's his first real clue, a fear inducing smell, possibly a gas of some type or an airborne substance.

He backs up, waits for the odor to dissipate and sure enough the fear ebbs away as well.

The room beyond the open door is no bigger than a broom closet. Except for a slew of cobwebs hanging from the walls the space is empty. Another door opens onto a short flight of stairs up to the school grounds. Whatever took Dean probably left the school using this exit.

Sam's jaw clenches so hard his teeth grind together and the muscles there ripple. He stares at the immediate area, the playgroung and the little bit of parking lot he can see from here, and then into the distance, looking for movement, any trace of recent passage, and finds none.

There must be some way to use their bond to find his brother, some way to sense him or communicate with him. Sam concentrates on the pinprick of light within himself that he associates with the bond, his Wish and his brother. He pours every bit of love and hope he can muster into that brilliant spot and he waits for a response, but no answering pulse or spark comes. His entire 6'4" frame trembles and he sinks to his knees and bows his head, a sob trapped behind his teeth.

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Dean wakes up slowly and the only thing he's really aware of is that he's wet. Well, not just wet, he's submerged in water up to his neck. He wonders why he decided to take a bath because he outgrew baths in favor of showers long ago. The temperature of the water, hovering just on the uncomfortably cold side of lukewarm, makes him think he must have been asleep for quite a while.

There's a relentless pounding at his temple, but he can't get his hands or arms to work well enough to investigate. Confused, he rolls his head from side to side, moaning softly in the back of his throat.

"Delicious-s-s-s." A guttural voice whispers.

His eyes snap open, fully awake, as the smell and the voice both register in his foggy mind. The fear hits him a second later like a physical blow and he recalls being snatched from the basement.

Eyes watering from either the stench or the pain, maybe both, make it difficult for him to see and he tries to move away from the hulking shape in front of him only to discover that something is wrapped around his arms and legs, circling his torso and his neck. The more he struggles the tighter his restraints become. Remembering his dad's lesson on treating each training exercise as if it's a life or death situation, Dean struggles harder heedless of overexerting his muscles or chaffing his skin. This is the real deal, his life on the line, and he can't afford to give up before he's given it his best shot.

Fear quickly turns into panic because he can't get free. His skin feels rubbed raw from rope abbrassions and the ill-defined shape chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying the show.

"Now, now, calm down, my pet. You won't last long at that rate." And the shape unfurls from its crouched position in the water and looms over him, becoming something vaguely humanoid.

The monster (for that's what it is, the word describes the creature perfectly) stands on two legs, haunches bent at an improbable angle. A long muzzle and peaked ears on the top of its head give it the appearance of a dog, but its arms are long and sinuous, fingers twice as long as a human's. The descriptions he'd heard from his classmates of tentacle-like arms make a whole lot more sense now. Its body is completely hairless, a dark grey color, glistening and wet.

Dean's breath wheezes in and out faster and faster, his lungs can only expand so far because of the bindings and the constriction around his neck limits the amount of air getting through his throat.

"S-s-s-s-so good. S-s-s-s-so good." The repulsive monster hisses happily as it strokes rubbery fingers along the side of his face.

A wave of dizziness engulfs him and he lets himself float away for a little while.

When he comes back to his senses the sun is directly overhead and the monster is still bending over him. Unable to move more than an inch in any direction, Dean cringes. He's frightened by his helplessness. "Get off me."

Instead of moving out of Dean's space the thing puts its large snout in his hair and takes a huge whiff. "You're better than the others." It exhales. "Sadness, devotion, love, remorse and fear. It's all inside of you. I'm going to enjoy you."

"No, you aren't." Dean tries to object, but ends up gagging when two slimy fingers push into his mouth and down his throat.

"You should stop talking." It gurgles with its mouth full of water before extracting its fingers.

Dean keeps his mouth shut from then on.

For the entire day the dog-faced creature never leaves his side, stays crouched in the water within touching distance. It won't leave him alone. Always caressing and cooing at him, touching his hair, his chin, his eyes. He's being treated like a living doll, a favorite toy. Shivers of revulsion travel along his spine. Overriding fear and the monster are his constant companions.

The monster never seems to eat and it never offers Dean any food, not that he'd be able to eat anyway. He should be hungry, having eaten little over the last couple of days, but he's really, really not. At least it hasn't decided to start chewing on _him_…yet. Aside from unconsciousness it doesn't let him sleep either.

His arms and legs have long since gone numb from a combination of chilling water and loss of circulation. Dean begins to hate the cloying water.

In those rare moments when the creature ceases its obsessive fondling and Dean can think past the gibbering fear he tries to devise a plan of escape. He knows he's in shallow water, but he can't figure out where. The water isn't running, so it's not a stream or a creek and it's not as big as a lake. More like a pond or a waterhole.

Tall grass grows on the muddy banks of the pool aside thick fluffy cat tails and water reeds. Every once in a while something brushes against his legs under the surface of the water, small fish or water bugs he supposes.

He appears to be bound with seaweed or supple vines. For the second time in as many days he wishes he had his knives on him. They would make short work of the fibers tangled around his limbs and preventing his every move.

Sammy must be wondering what happened to him by now. Dean hopes the school called dad to come and get his little brother when Dean didn't show up to walk him home after school and then he remembers the Wish.

He's never actually longed for his little brother to grow up and come to his rescue before, although he's certainly benefited from it. Those times when Sammy has transformed into an adult to help him have always happened too quickly for him to anticipate them. Now that it's occurred to him though, Dean can't stop thinking about it. What he wouldn't give to see his grown up brother or his dad come striding through the tall grass at this moment!

Using his empathy, Dean pulls his brother's emotions along their bond until he can sense the undercurrent of grief, frustration and suffering. On top of those sentiments though, he feels determination, hope, anger, and love. His brother's emotions are so much better than the fear and powerlessness he's been living with all day and just knowing Sammy is out there looking for him makes him feel better. Channeling his brother's emotions over a long period turns out to be more of a drain than he had imagined it would be though and coupled with the lack of sleep the previous two nights and the adrenaline chasing through his system he just can't keep the link open.

As soon as the sun goes down, things go from very bad to oh so much worse. The creature curls its garden hose length arms around him and pulls him in close to its body so that his nose and mouth are scrunched up against its grey rubbery flesh and he feels like he's going to suffocate. Fumes pour into his airways and it doesn't matter whether he breathes through his nose or his mouth, either way he gets no relief from the assault on his already frayed nerves. He can imagine how a teddy bear owned by a psychotic child might feel.

Adrenaline born of terror keeps him awake all night and by the morning his brain seems to have turned into mush. His head has slipped further into the water, prevented from slipping all the way under only by the creature's spongy stomach which is acting like a pillow. He hasn't the will or the strength to lift his head out of the water and, honestly, he kind of welcomes the release. Phantom pins and needles prickle under his skin when a tongue licks his ear. He wonders if that's how nauseating water monsters say good morning and shudders in reply.

To be continued.

**A/N: Feedback is cherished and loved. I hope you all had a happy holiday season and are ready for a fantastic new year!**


	5. Don't Touch Me

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: In case you are new to the party, this is the second story in what I hope will become many in the 'Wish verse. The first story is named I Wish I was a Growed Up. There will likely be one, possibly two, more chapters to this story. Thank you for reading!**

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 5 Don't Touch Me**

"It's a Bunyip." John states matter-of-factly, folding a newspaper article neatly and sticking it between the pages of his journal. "I'd stake my life on it."

The man is so calm it's infuriating.

"That's great, but would you stake Dean's?" Sammy's scathing tone does little to hide his true feelings. His anger at his father is on a slow simmer, has been all night, and he's having some difficulty keeping it contained. If the man had bothered to spend more than a few seconds listening to Dean when he'd voiced his concerns about a monster, really listening to him, none of this would have happened. It may not be fair of him to blame his father for Dean's disappearance, but he's not feeling very charitable right now.

"Sam…" John says, rubbing a weary hand across his face. "Cut me a little slack here, will ya?"

They are both worn thin, neither one of them willing to rest while Dean is still missing and neither one of them willing to give up on him even if it has been twenty four hours since anyone has seen the boy and they have almost nothing to go on.

Leaving the school without his brother yesterday had just about killed him. After prowling around the building and coming up empty handed, he'd finally thrown in the towel and bolted home to call in the cavalry, their dad. It was pretty clear that Dean was no longer anywhere near the school; not only was he missing but he could be anywhere really, spirited away by god only knows what. Faced with an unidentified search parameter and limited time in which his brother might reasonably be expected to be found unharmed, bringing John into the loop had been the only rational choice he could make. Feeling as though he was conceding defeat and abandoning the most important part of his life, Sam's heart had broken a little bit on his swift jog back to the house.

They had spent the previous day canvassing the area around the school, desperate to find something, some clue as to Dean's whereabouts, looking for anything at all to aid their search. They'd spent the night reading and rereading the five pages of notes from Dean's notebook which Sam found in his backpack, scanning newspaper articles, and in John's case, reading his journal for anything that might fit the scanty fact pattern they'd managed to put together.

The morning finds them gritty-eyed and slugging down coffee by the pot. It's hard not to get depressed by how very little information they have.

Sam can't help but feel as though he's already failed, failed Dean, failed to protect him, failed to get to him in time.

The absence of any sensation from their bond is like a stinging betrayal and it's just so wrong, so disturbing, that Sam wants to get in bed, pull the covers over his head and pretend the world doesn't exist anymore. Maybe he'll wake up and the whole thing will have been a bad dream.

But he can't, he won't, he's never going to give up, not as long as he's still breathing. They're going to find Dean and Dean's going to be all right. He is.

Worry frequently gets processed as anger, Sam knows this better than most people, and he's worried about his brother, terrified for him actually. Because he still can't sense anything along their bond, no emotion, no empathy, nothing. The anger is a natural reaction to the despair he can't let himself feel.

Reining in the sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, he stops pacing the length of their small living room, sighs heavily and gives his father his undivided attention. "Alright, assuming you're right, what exactly is a Bunyip and what does this mean for Dean?"

"Bunyips are water dwellers. Spend most of their time in secluded stagnant water. They love a good swamp, but they'll settle for a pond or any place that's wet and isolated." John says and he jumps up to rummage through a stack of papers, quickly finding what he's looking for and holding up a map as if he holds the Holy Grail in his hand.

Tattered and dog-eared, the map doesn't inspire much confidence. Sam's not quite sold yet, needs something more before he's ready to get on board.

"Okay…that explains the algae covered twig I found on the stairs leading out of the basement." Sam grudgingly admits. The smallish stick had looked completely out of place on the concrete school grounds and so he had taken it with him as the only piece of evidence anywhere nearby and shared his find with his dad as soon as he'd been able to.

"Yeah." John confirms. "The twig you found obviously came from someplace where there's some standing water. We just need to find the closest body of water and we can teach a certain Bunyip a lesson and have Dean back before nightfall." The steely glint in John's eyes says all that needs to be said about what kind of lesson the Bunyip will be learning. He wastes no time spreading the local map out on the kitchen counter, finger running over the wrinkled surface as he looks for the most likely den for their quarry.

The hunter seems positive that he's on the right track, but Sam needs more proof before they squander valuable hours on a guess. Who knows how many hours Dean has left. "Pretty flimsy as far as proof goes, don't you think? I mean we've been pouring over information all night, how does the answer come to you just now? Why not earlier?"

"You remember that gas you told me you smelled when you were down in the basement and the fear you felt?" John waits for Sam's nod. "Well, here's the thing Sam, what you were smelling was the Bunyip. It might have been gone by the time you got there, but its smell was still lingering. They can cause fear in their victims by emitting a spore. It's the spore that stinks so badly." Jutting his chin out defiantly, John continues. "I wish I'd thought of it earlier, but sometimes it just works that way, the pieces of the puzzle don't line up right immediately."

John never did accept blame easily.

In any case, this is both good news and bad news, Sam thinks. The good news is that it sounds like they have a legitimate suspect, the bad news is that Dean is being held captive somewhere remote and is probably scared out of his mind.

Sam begins moving around their small living space gathering supplies for a hunt and calls over his shoulder. "Alright, but that doesn't explain why a Bunyip was hanging out at an elementary school."

"They feed off emotions, the more unpleasant the emotions the happier the Bunyip becomes. What better place to find your common variety of jealousy, hurt feelings, sadness, you name it, than at a school? It probably splits its time between the local grade schools and the high school. All you can eat buffets for a Bunyip."

The band around Sam's heart loosens marginally and he grabs his father's shoulder, forcefully turning the man away from his perusal of the map and looking at him dead on. "You said it feeds off emotions. Could that be why I'm not sensing anything from him-from Dean? The Bunyip is intercepting his emotions before they can be transmitted?" The words are pouring out so fast that Sam isn't sure his dad can understand what he's asking. He forces himself to take a deep breath while he waits for an answer.

"Yeah." John smiles and lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck, squeezing roughly. "That's why. I'm sure of it."

Sam exhales and the relief that washes over him is so intense he feels giddy and lightheaded. This explanation for why he can't sense his brother anymore gives him renewed hope and purpose. He doesn't want to admit how close he had come to losing faith. The lack of emotion coming across his bond with Dean had been a huge, depressing weight on his spirit, but now he knows there's an explanation for it that doesn't include severe injury for Dean and he knows nothing's going to stop him from bringing his brother home safely.

John resumes pouring over the map, but another question occurs to Sam. "Why take Dean then? If it has all the emotions from the school kids at its disposal, why take Dean?"

"Opportunity it just couldn't pass up I imagine." John answers without looking up from the map. "Think about it, Dean basically falls right into its lap by walking into that basement alone. Why wouldn't it take him?"

"You don't think it'll hurt him, do you?" Sam adds their extensive first aid kit to his growing pile of supplies.

Instead of replying, John slams his fist into the counter near the map with a resounding crack and grinds his teeth together so hard that Sam can see his jaw muscles ripple. It's not hard to recognize John's violence for the worry he's trying to hide. "It's here." He announces once he's got himself under control and points to a spot on the map shaded blue to designate water.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

There's no shelter from the crisp autumn wind and although the day isn't unbearable cold it isn't exactly pleasant either. He is completely exposed to the elements. Not a single tree dots the landscape as far as Dean can see. Admittedly he can't see very far from his position mostly submerged in the pond and surrounded by tall grass, but still.

After spending the night awake and marinating in fear, Dean feels drained to the point where he's in a listless stupor. Not only that, but the water seems to have seeped into his skin so that he's waterlogged and heavy. Even the parts of his body not constantly under water are damp and when the wind blows he gets goose bumps from the chill.

The honking sound of geese makes Dean look up and he sees the familiar V formation straight overhead. They sound lonely, but Dean doesn't think they're as lonely as him.

"No one will ever find you." His captor and jailor cackles. "You're mine now, you belong to me." Long strings of drool slither past its lips, ignored. Eyes as brown as mud look at Dean with greedy intent.

The monster is even more chatty this morning if that's possible and the longer it has Dean the more possessive it seems to become.

"No I don't." Dean risks a mouthful of pond scum and slimy fingers caressing his gums to deny that horrible possibility. The disgusting creature (he wishes he had a name for it) still doesn't like it when he talks and punishes him every time in the same manner.

The ever-present fear, caustic and burning, fills his stomach with acid as he smells the monster's noxious odor getting stronger.

He knows what's going to happen next and he's had enough, can't stand any more, isn't going to put up with it without a fight. When the grimy fingers invade his mouth he's ready for them and fights back the only way he can. He bites down using every ounce of force he can muster and tries not to think about the wiggling digits frantically sliding over his tongue like giant slugs. Bearing down and grinding his teeth together results in a howl from the creature as he breaks skin and his mouth fills with a thick paste. Its blood, Dean guesses.

In retaliation the monster grabs a fistful of his hair in its other hand and pushes his face under the nasty pond water, holding it there until he has to relent and open his mouth to release the fingers from between his clamped teeth. Thankfully, he feels the hold on his head withdraw immediately and the dog-faced monster pulls away slightly to nurse its damaged hand. As soon as his head breaks the surface he gasps in a huge lungful of air, coughing and spluttering and spitting until he gets most of the purplish goop out of his mouth. Despite his best effort some of it trickles down his throat and he gags on the taste of rotten fish.

"You're mine and I'm never letting you go." The monster insists and presses its dripping nose against his cheek, inhaling deeply. "You're too tasty for words, my pet. Too sweet," it says and licks him from his neck all the way up the side of his face to his temple as if he were a lollipop then clacks malicious looking teeth together. Dean can feel its breath moist on his face and the sound of those teeth is so close to his head he's surprised he still has an ear left on that side.

Dean doesn't take kindly to being called 'my pet'. It just seems like one insult too many and he decides he hates nicknames. "Don't touch me, stinky." Two can play at the name calling game and Dean tacks on the only derogative nickname he can come up with in the spur of the moment.

"I doubt anyone's even looking for you anymore. They've probably forgotten all about you." The snicker accompanying these words is cruel, way too confident for Dean's peace of mind.

Even so, he's not fooled. "They'll come." He whispers, mostly for his own sake.

He believes his brother and father will come, but he's still scared and he just wants to go home, he wants to go home so badly that he starts to make deals with the angels his mom used to say were watching over him. _If you let me go home I'll do anything you want, anything at all._ When that doesn't work, he closes his eyes and pretends. He imagines Sammy is there with him, talking to him in the deep soothing voice he uses when he's a grown up. He imagines being warm and dry and safe. It's so real he smiles the private smile he shares only with his brother, as if Sammy were actually here with him.

The sensations of home and love and a wistful yearning flow across their bond and into him as if his brother is thinking about him and missing him just as much as Dean misses Sam. It's there in his heart, gentle as a feather, and then it's gone just as fast as it came and Dean is left breathless. He cries out at the loss and chases the feeling along the strand of their connection, trying to reach its source.

The clammy hand prying his eyes open forces him from his quest for his brother's contact with a suddenness that feels like a stinging slap. He thinks that if the monster touches him one more time he's going to go right over the deep end because his skin is hypersensitive, his nerves flayed, and one more caress might just strip the flesh from his bones.

His muscles seize up, clenching and cramping painfully from lack of use over so many hours. The urge to get away, fight back, escape or just move is powerful, but the vines…plants…whatever is wrapped around him won't give an inch. Dean moans and shakes his head furiously from side to side. It's the only relief he gets from his forced immobility.

He doesn't feel like a Jedi knight anymore, invincible and mighty. He feels small and vulnerable. And maybe he isn't quite ready to hunt all by himself yet.

The creature moves closer again and begins chanting into his ear, "Fear is best served cold, anger goes down hot, jealousy tastes fine at night, so give me all you got."

Just as he thinks the monster is going to begin singing him love ballads it draws away from him abruptly. "Coming...someone's coming." It mutters and stands alertly on its hind legs. Its erect ears swivel and twitch, indecision stark in its body posture like its weighing possible courses of action. Flee or fight.

Then Dean hears a stomping sound as if someone were running towards them at full tilt, making no effort at stealth whatsoever. This sound is followed by a bellowing shout which sounds a lot like a battle cry his dad might use except that Dean has never heard his dad shout like that before.

Swiftly coming to a conclusion as to what to do, the monster grabs Dean and yanks. The vines ensnaring his body pull taut for an instant and then the base of the plant snaps leaving him tied up and helpless, but freed from the bottom of the pond where he had been anchored. He comes out of the water yelping at the added pressure of tightened bands over already abused skin and muscle. As if he weighed nothing at all, his persistent captor starts running with Dean in his arms in the opposite direction from the noise.

The world bounces around him and he can't see a thing, jerked up and down the way he is by the uncoordinated running. This monster is obviously not meant to move swiftly while carrying a child. It's built all wrong, its legs are too short and its arms are too long. So Dean doesn't see Sammy until his all-grown-up brother is right in front of them and they come skidding to a halt.

In a panic, his captor, who had been so insistent on keeping him for ever and ever only moments ago, throws Dean to the right while it dodges to the left. Dean wonders if the creature is trying to use him as a diversion so it can escape. When push comes to shove apparently its favorite toy isn't worth fighting for after all. Easily tossed away.

Dean lands in a trussed up heap. The air gets knocked from his lungs when his body slams to the ground and things go kind of hazy and blurry around the edges. His eyelids get heavy and he struggles to keep them open. He blinks once and his dad materializes out of thin air. He blinks again and the monster is cradling the stump of one of its arms, purple-red blood oozing from the severed end. The next time he manages to pry his eyes open Sammy is kneeling next to him and the monster is dead at his father's feet. His brother has a knife out and is gently cutting the knotted and twisted vine from around his arms and legs.

Every section of vine removed feels heavenly and torturous at the same time. Circulation returns to oxygen starved extremities and each careful brush of Sammy's fingertips over his skin causes a burst of painful needle pricks. All he can do is lie there in agony and try not to whimper out loud.

"Dean? Can you hear me? Can you talk to me?" Sam whispers when the last of the vines have been cut away.

It all seems dreamlike and surreal. Dean begins to wonder if maybe he's fantasizing again and suddenly he needs Sammy to tell him it's real. "You found me, right Sammy? It said you wouldn't come, but you came. Sammy?" His voice sounds squeaky and young, so very young.

"Of course we came. We'll always come for you, don't you ever doubt it, no matter what." Sammy says, voice as tender and soothing as a lullaby.

"Is he okay, Sam? Do we need the first aid kit?" Dad sounds terrible and he hasn't moved from his ominous position over the monster where he seems to have stationed himself like an avenging deity, his vengeance swift and just.

Dean cranes his neck to get a better view and his gaze is undeniably drawn to his father's defeated foe.

Looking at the creature's body, Dean is overcome by a hatred so intense every other thought flies from his mind, he can't stand the sight of it, can't help remembering how it made him feel, dirty and violated. The knife Sammy just used to cut his bindings lies on the ground where his brother had dropped it as soon as he'd cut the last constricting vine. Despite his trembling, kitten-weak limbs, Dean grabs the knife and crawls through the muddy grass to plunge the blade into the lifeless grey flesh over and over again. "Not yours…leave me alone…don't touch me…" Every thrust of his blade is punctuated with a hoarse demand.

Gooey ichor leaks from the gapping wounds, coating his hands and clothes.

Sam and their dad stand wordlessly watching, eyes filling with tears until Sam seems to decide that enough is enough. He takes a step forward and scoops Dean up, gently pressing Dean's head into his shoulder and shielding his face so the monster is no longer in his line of sight. "It's over, it can't hurt you anymore."

His body stiffens as though he's made out of wood. "Don't touch me." He begs, reliving the monster's clinginess.

But Sam must sense that what he's saying and what he needs are two totally different things, light years apart, because instead of letting him go his brother clutches him closer, hugging him with furious intent, arms warm and comforting around him. "You're safe now, kiddo. It's going to be okay, I promise. You're safe."

He wants to resist, but the last of the adrenaline seeps from his body leaving him limp with fatigue. Dean's rigid body trembles and then he melts into his brother's embrace. He's home.

To be continued.

**A/N: Okay, so this chapter was emotionally heavy and action heavy and I was excited to write it, really excited, but it was a lot of work. I had to dip into each character's headspace and try to **_**feel**_** what they were feeling and I thought about it all the time, in the car, at my job, at night. I'm really satisfied with it and I'd love to hear from you. Please, please, please, if you liked it let me know. If you didn't like it please tell me why so I can try to make it better. Just be warned that if you're going to tell me there was too much schmoop I may not be able to do anything about it. I don't think I can write any other way. *bg***


	6. Nicknames are for Babies

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! I just need one more chapter to tie everything up in a pretty bow. **

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 6 Nicknames are for Babies**

Dean's emotions flood into Sam as soon as the Bunyip is dead; homesickness and gratitude, relief and anger, humiliation and surprise, fear and sorrow with an eclipsing adoration which Sam can sense is mostly directed at him. It's a good thing the effect is tempered by Dean's exhaustion or Sam might have found himself incapacitated by the range of emotions and the admiration he feels for his brother. Dean has been through so much and still his love of family, of Sam, is overpowering, undiminished.

Peeling the wet clothes off Dean's shivering body is as difficult as trying to peel an apple with his fingernails. Dean tries to help, but his feeble movements are more of a hindrance than a help. "Relax kiddo. I've got it from here. Let me take care of this." Sammy speaks quietly in the tone of voice that seems to calm his distressed brother.

The saturated clothing is covered in gore and stinks to high heaven. Sam really wants to get rid of it as quickly as possible so they can wrap Dean up in something dry and get him away from the scene of his captivity. At first he'd tried to use the knife to cut the clothes away, (they were garbage at this point anyway) but Dean's eyes had gotten so big that Sam had immediately tucked the knife out of sight. So now he's forced to tug and rip at the soiled shirt and parts until they finally give way and fall to the ground in a sodden mess.

Dean's skin is red and puffy, painful looking, everywhere the vines had been tied. John takes one look at the boy and removes his leather jacket, draping it over his young son. "Put that on him and take him back to the car. Turn the heater on. I'll be there in a minute." Then the hunter is gone, busy taking care of the corpse and cleaning up the area. By the time he's done, no one will be able to tell anything supernatural has ever been here.

Sam takes off his blue cotton hoodie and carefully threads Dean's arms and head through the appropriate holes. Dean moans softly, but otherwise is pliant, allowing himself to be manipulated into the overly large garment. The sleeve cuffs fall way past his hands and the bottom of the hem reaches his knees. So much the better for keeping him warm, Sam thinks. Next he bundles their dad's jacket around Dean's legs like a lap blanket, hefts him up with one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders, and starts back towards the Impala.

Sleepiness isn't an emotion per se and generally isn't transmitted along their empathic bond, but it's impossible to miss the numbing weariness reflected in the dull slits of Dean's green eyes. He's mostly asleep and complacent, limbs lax.

Judging by how worn out the boy is Sam surmises that the Bunyip didn't let him sleep much or at all the whole time it had him. Which only makes Sam wonder what the Bunyip did with his brother for those two days and one night. Dean's reaction to its corpse and his scared yet angry commands to the creature to 'leave me alone' and 'don't touch me' are most definitely troubling.

As much as Sam would like to let Dean fall asleep, forget what happened and never mention it ever again, he knows this may be his best chance to find out what his brother suffered at the Bunyip's hands. It's important to know what they're going to be dealing with because its clear Dean isn't going to come out of this experience unscathed. He's going to need help and they won't be able to help him if they don't understand.

John will be joining them quickly once they reach the car and Sam knows Dean won't want to talk about what he's sure to see as his own weaknesses with their father nearby. The boy's defenses are rubble right now, but he'll probably begin building them back up shortly. It's either now or never if he's going to be able to get Dean to talk to him.

"Dean, did the Bunyip – the monster – did it hurt you?" Sam speaks in a low tone and continues walking to the car, his brother nestled safely in his arms.

Dean's eyes come up to half-mast and his eyebrows knit together as though he's puzzled by the question. "T-the ropes hurt. I c-couldn't move. I was scared." He answers uncertainly, voice tapering off to a whisper at the end. His tone is small and pleading as if he's asking forgiveness, as if he needs to be forgiven for being afraid.

"It's okay to be scared, nothing to be embarrassed about." Sam tries to reassure and hopes he can keep himself together long enough to figure out what kinds of issues his brother is likely to take away from his ordeal. "Did it keep you tied up the whole time? What else did it do? You can tell me."

"Y-yes, the w-whole time." Dean sounds like he's trying desperately not to cry and Sam feels a tight band constrict his chest. "It never stopped t-touching me, licking m-me." He squeezes his eyes shut and hitches a sharp breath in.

Sam hates having to do this, hates making Dean talk about being tormented. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so sorry." He soothes. "Just one more question then you can go to sleep. Where did it touch you?"

"My face. My m-mouth. It smelled so bad and it said I belonged to it and no one would every find me, Sammy." The gush of words is desperate and so forlorn. Two tears spill over and run down Dean's grubby cheeks.

Sam can't help himself, without giving it a second thought he leans over and kisses the crown of his brother's head. Even though Dean is distraught and Sam feels terrible, it could have been so much worse. "Yeah, well…it lied." He breathes against the boy's hair, not caring about the filth matted into the fine strands.

They reach the Impala shortly thereafter and seeing as how Dean's already fast asleep, Sam cocoons him in the back seat under a pile of blankets he finds in the trunk before he starts the engine and turns the heat on full blast. He's sitting in the front passenger seat deep in thought when John creaks the driver's side door open and eases into the seat next to him. The acrid smell of smoke is immediately apparent.

Sighing heavily and digging the heel of his palm into first one eye and then the other, John twists around so he can see into the back seat. "How is he?"

"I don't know." Worry colors Sam's words. "He was too tired to tell me much. Aside from the abrasions on his skin I didn't see any physical damage. I doubt he's eaten or slept since it took him."

John nods and shifts the car into gear. They drive home in silence, each lost in the maze of his private thoughts.

All the lights are on in their little two bedroom rental when they get home which serves to remind Sam that they had left the apartment in a hurry at dawn after having stayed up all night searching for leads. He yawns and groans as he stretches and his spine pops with the movement.

"Yeah, bed sounds good right about now." John chuckles, giving his son a look full of light-hearted sympathy. The car doors squeal open and their father cocks his head towards the back seat. "See, I told you we'd have him home before nightfall."

Sam takes a second to think about that. They have Dean back and he's alright, he's going to be just fine. There's no point in worrying about new problems that haven't even surfaced yet. Letting his father's good humor infect him, Sam smiles. "Well, you had the time frame right, but you didn't say anything about him coming home smelling like a grungy fishing boat that's been out to sea for far too long."

John wrinkles his nose and walks up to the front door of the house, calling over his shoulder. "True, I'll let you decide what to do about getting him cleaned up. Have fun with that."

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam mutters to himself before leaning into the back seat and attempting to shake his brother awake. "Come on sleepyhead, let's get you into a bath and then into bed. How's that sound?"

Dean just snuffles and burrows further under the blankets.

Shaking his head indulgently, Sam says, "I kinda thought that might be your answer." Once Sam pulls Dean out of the car, the boy twines his thin arms around Sam's neck and falls back asleep with his head on Sam's shoulder. The sweet, trusting gesture is so heartbreakingly childlike and so completely unlike his brother. It makes Sam want to both cry and laugh.

He lays Dean on the couch while he runs the water for the bath. Crusty grains of dried muck flake from his skin and land on the worn upholstery. There's no telling what makes up some of the grime covering Dean's body, but Bunyip blood and other bodily fluids is a good guess for most of it.

The water level in the tub reaches an acceptable height and once Sam is comfortable with the temperature, he gathers Dean up, still sleeping, and lowers him into the warm water.

The effect is instantaneous. The moment Dean's legs enter the water he stiffens, a piercing scream explodes from his mouth quickly turning into garbled, whimpering pleas. "No, please no. No more water. Sammy…help me. I don't wanna go back there, please don't let it take me."

Sam, startled by the sudden and very unexpected outburst from his brother and thinking he must have done something to hurt the boy, jerks his supporting arms away and Dean splashes the rest of the way into the tub. Dean's eyes roll wildly as he tries to come to grips with where he is and who is looming over him. Since he's used to only being able to move his head, he flinches violently backwards until his head connects with the porcelain side of the bathtub hard enough for the crack to resound throughout the confining room.

"Hey, hey Dean, it's just me, you're alright. You're not going back there. I'm never letting anything take you again, I swear." Sam tries to get his arms around his brother or at least cushion his head from anymore accidental blows against the wall.

"Where is the monster? Where is it? Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." Sounding pitifully desperate, Dean moans and scrabbles out of arms reach.

As if there isn't already enough chaos, John chooses that moment to slam the partially open bathroom door the rest of the way open. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

"I'm an idiot, that's what's wrong. I'm trying to give him a bath after he just spent 48 hours being terrorized in the water. Dumb idea." Sam snaps at their father all the while trying to inch closer to Dean who is standing and cowering against the wall as far away from Sam as he can get, possibly attempting to become invisible or phase through the tile to put any kind of barrier between them. "Whoa, easy Dean. Take it easy."

"Have him take a shower then. He's going to have to get over it, he can't go around smelling like rancid tuna." John's hands creep up to his temples and he rubs the sides of his head impatiently.

Glowering at the insensitivity, Sam pointedly arches his eyebrows. "You're not helping, Dad. Why don't you back off and let me handle this? Go lay down or something, you look like you're nursing the mother of all headaches."

John narrows his eyes like he wants to tear Sam apart for being disrespectful, but after a beat or two he scowls and retreats to his bedroom.

Something about the defensive posture Dean has adopted makes Sam stop reaching for him and lower his tone to a softer register. "I'm sorry Dean. This one is all on me; I made a really stupid mistake. I'm sorry." He projects peace and acceptance through their link into Dean, infuses every cell in his body with a sense of calm understanding and hopes a portion of it reaches the haunted looking boy in front of him.

Clarity replaces the delirious, wild look in Dean's eyes now that he's fully awake and his shoulders slump, his head bows. "It's okay. I'm okay. Just…no touching. No touching."

Sam's heart sinks in his chest like a lead weight, but he keeps his voice light when he says, "You got it, no touching. So how about it, you want a shower? Or you could just use a washcloth and some soap. It's up to you kiddo, you call the shots."

"Shower, I guess." Dean won't meet Sam's gaze and his bashful voice is pitched so soft Sam can barely hear the words.

"Shower it is then." With a slow and easy twist of his wrist, Sam gets the water adjusted and flowing from the showerhead then flips the drain open to let the accumulated water run out of the tub. He smiles his most reassuring smile at his still skittish brother and leaves to get a towel from the closet.

So much for not worrying about new problems until they surface. It looks as though the Titanic of problems has just bobbed up from its watery grave.

Sam knows that Dean is shaken right down to his core. He can sense that the boy's confidence in his ability to take care of himself and, more importantly to Dean, his ability to take care of his little brother Sammy, has been shattered. Depression slithers across their bond like a living thing.

And this 'no touching' mantra is a sign of deep trauma. If John thinks Dean is just going to magically 'get over it' he has a big surprise coming. Another thing that's bothering Sam is the fact that Dean hasn't mentioned being hungry yet and the boy should be starving, ravenous even.

Dean needs a little breathing room right now, that much is obvious, so Sam places the towel on the bathroom counter next to the sink and quietly withdraws to the living room. The house is small and Dean won't be able to leave the bathroom without Sam knowing about it. There's no reason to hover or crowd the boy.

The house is deceptively quiet, silent other than the water running in the shower. No noise comes from their dad's room, no light shines from the crack under the closed door. Sam wonders what his dad is up to in there and then dismisses the thought; he has his hands full at the moment. One problem at a time and dad can take care of himself. All of Sam's attention is devoted to Dean for as long as his brother needs him. That's just the way it is and how it always will be.

Dean shuffles slowly from the bathroom with the towel wrapped loosely around his shoulders. It hangs down to his shins and makes him look like a homeless waif. The stench is gone, replaced with the clean scent of whatever soap had been on sale the last time Dean had gone shopping.

"Hey Dean, are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich." Sam offers.

A look of pure revulsion passes swiftly across Dean's features. "No, I'm not hungry, just tired. Can I go to bed now?"

"Of course you can. Do you need any help?"

Averting his eyes, Dean shakes his head. "No." He turns and then hesitates.

Dean's trying to be brave, to act as though he's unaffected, but it's a lie. Sam can tell he's torn between needing affection and not being able to stand the idea of physical contact. He remembers that Dean finds it difficult to sleep without the white noise provided by another person in the same room and the prospect of being alone is most likely intimidating right now.

"I'm beat, too. It's been a long couple of days for all of us." Sam leads the way into their bedroom and is pleased when he senses Dean's anxiety ease.

The night passes without evidence of the previous day's ordeal. No nightmares plague Dean's rest and Sam wakes in the morning hopeful that the much needed sleep has done the boy some good.

John is in the kitchen sitting at the table and writing feverishly in his journal when Sam emerges stealthily from the bedroom so as not to disturb Dean. A mostly empty cup of coffee is evidence that the hunter has been up for a while.

Sam pours himself a cup, leans back against the counter and crosses his legs at the ankle. "Morning, you updating your Bunyip information?"

"Yeah, I want to get it all down while it's still fresh in my mind. As soon as Dean's up I need to pick his brain too."

Nodding, Sam stares into his coffee cup. The rich smell is soothing and homey. "Just go easy on him. He's taking the whole experience hard. It's thrown him for a bit of a loop."

Right on cue Dean enters the kitchen and Sam's not sure how much of the conversation he's overheard.

"I'm glad you're up, kiddo. I want you to tell me everything you can about the Bunyip." John stands and puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. He probably means for the gesture to be supportive, but Dean reacts as if he's been stung, visibly wincing and dodging out from underneath it.

"Don't call me that." He rasps. "I don't want you to call me that. Nicknames are for babies."

A small frown of confusion causes John's brow to furrow. "What? Kiddo? Sam calls you 'kiddo' all the time and you've never said anything about it before." John looks and sounds as though his feelings have been hurt which would be laughable under different circumstances.

"I-I don't…" Dean stammers to a halt, clearly not knowing what to say or how to explain the jumble of conflicting emotions.

Sam doesn't have to wonder at what his brother is feeling because the panic-inducing helplessness coming from the boy is overwhelming. "Dean, we won't call you kiddo if you don't like it. It's alright." Hoping that a change in topic will smooth things over, he says, "I'm going to make you some eggs and toast for breakfast, you've got to be starving."

The same look of revulsion from the previous night makes a reappearance. "I'm not. I don't want to eat." Dean denies, but the tremors running along the arms he has crossed over his chest contradict his retort.

"You have to have something, you don't get a choice here." John growls, reaching the end of his limited patience. "Look at you Dean, you can barely stand up you're so weak. How long has it been since you've had anything to eat?"

Suddenly John is in motion and everything happens in a blur of action and reaction. Getting a large hand around Dean's arm, John pulls the boy roughly towards a stool at the counter, apparently meaning for him to sit down for a healthy meal. Dean screams like a wounded animal and bucks ferociously, but only succeeds in causing their dad to tighten his grip and wrap both arms around Dean's heaving torso to hold onto him better.

All Sam sees is how fragile his brother looks caught up in the trap of John's unrelenting grip. The sight tugs at his heart.

John is beside himself and out of his depth. "Dean! Calm down! You can't let yourself get this worked over one monster, it wasn't even all that bad. Pull your act together and shake it off." Getting no reaction from Dean other than renewed frenzy, their dad tries another tactic. "You don't want your brother to have to keep on sacrificing his childhood to take care of you, do you?"

The accusation sizzles in the air between the three of them. The irony of the statement is almost more than Sam can bear.

Dean gasps. Guilt and horrified dismay slam into Sam's chest, channeled empathically from his brother.

Sam's fist is flying before he can actually make the conscious decision to take his father out. "Let. Him. Go."

A solid sounding thunk of flesh striking flesh accompanies Sam's right hook and John's head rocks back, his arms fall open.

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Reviews are loved.**


	7. Not a Sacrifice

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: I spent a ton of time just thinking about this chapter and procrastinating the actual writing of it because I really wanted it to be good and I kept psyching myself out. For better of for worse, here it is. This is the end of the story, but not the end of the 'verse. Thank you for reading, I hope you like it! **

**The Reason I Live**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 7 Not a Sacrifice**

It's surprise and shock that causes John to release Dean more than it is the force of the blow. Sam knows this because he'd pulled the punch at the last possible moment, refrained from hitting his father with every ounce of his considerable strength. It had been hard enough, as his bruised knuckles will testify. He'd accomplished what he needed to; John is no longer attempting to wrestle Dean into submission.

John recovers quickly. One of his hands rubs at the red mark on his jaw and the other comes up in front of his body in a 'come closer' motion. "Come on, Sam. Don't hold back, show me how you really feel." Although he's talking to Sam, he's watching Dean closely, a possessive, calculating gleam in his eye.

Dean staggers away from his dad, but he doesn't go far, just puts enough distance between them to avoid another grab from John's long arms should it come to that. He's unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly as if a gale wind is blowing through the room, occasionally buffeting him. Sam notices that Dean has strategically placed himself in between the two men, planning to stop any further physical violence, as if he could in his condition.

That's not where Sam wants him though so he steps around Dean and gets the boy safely behind him. Standing firmly in front of Dean and shielding him from their dad, Sam barks, "Don't you _dare_ put another _finger_ on him."

Both of John's hands fall to his sides and he shifts one foot backwards. It appears as if the hunter is getting ready to stand down and if Sam wasn't John's son he might be taken in by the relaxed stance. As it is, Sam knows they're only just getting started. "He's my son, Sam. Not. Yours. And no one tells me not to touch my boy. Not even you." John snarls.

"That's great. I'm glad you recognize him as your son because he could really use a father who treats him like one." Sarcasm laces Sam's words and he can feel a cold rage growing in his gut.

The angrier John gets the deeper and slower his voice becomes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you treat him like a soldier instead of a boy. You sent him off hunting alone. He's not ready for that! No matter how much you want him to be, he's not ready to go after evil, fear-projecting creatures all by himself." Sam waves one hand in the air to express how monumentally crazy he finds the entire situation. "And the thing is Dad, he'll do it if he thinks you want him to. He'll do it just in the hopes that you'll be proud of him. It breaks my heart."

"I didn't send him off to hunt alone, I told him to continue looking into the rumors. There's a big difference." John rationalizes. "Besides, I didn't think there was actually anything for him to find. I just wanted him to get the experience. It was great experience."

"Something tells me it didn't turn out to be a great experience and if you can't take care of him the way he needs you to, the way any child needs their parent to look after them, then you need to back off and let me do it."

A loud crash behind him has Sam whipping around to stare at Dean who is standing next to the sink, shards of broken glass and ceramic from the mismatched collection of plates and glass cups which came with the rental littering the floor around his bare feet. It looks like at least half a dozen plates and as many glasses have met their untimely death at Dean's hand and Sam wonders how the boy managed to destroy so many all at once. He has two more large glass tumblers in his hands and as Sam watches in disbelief, the boy throws them both into the growing pile of jagged wreckage on the floor.

"Stop it! No one has to take care of me. This isn't what I want. I didn't ask for this…for Sammy to give up bein' a kid for me." Dean's eyes are brimming with unshed tears, his bottom lip trembles even though he's trying hard not to lose control. "I can take care of myself."

Dean's bid to stop them from fighting works. Neither John nor Sam feels much like fighting anymore, not with Dean so close to the edge. The open cupboard to Dean's left is still half full of tableware and glasses, plenty of ammunition should he decide he's not yet finished throwing things.

Sam can feel Dean's agitation and he can tell the boy is on the verge of bolting out the front door. The hazardous material coving the space all the way from the cabinets to the exit and Dean's bare feet make it imperative for Sam to find a way to keep that from happening. "Okay Dean, we'll stop. Just don't move. There's glass all around you. Can I…I'm going to come get you…don't move." Using his socked feet, Sam starts clearing a path through the jagged shards by sweeping his soles back and forth and tentatively stepping closer to his brother.

An agonized whimper halts Sam's progress and he looks up from a particularly sharp piece of broken ceramic bowl that he's gingerly moving out of the way to see Dean's eyes glaze over and his feet slide out from under him. The cabinet behind him provides a back rest and his legs jut out in front of him.

John curses and strides forward, heedless of the glass crunching under his boots, but as soon as he gets close Dean cringes away, uttering a choked off whine.

"John…" Sam warns and then kneels down where he is, facing Dean, disregarding the stinging jabs of glass poking through the knees of his blue jeans. A quick glance tells him that only a couple superficial cuts are seeping blood on Dean's feet. Nothing needs immediate medical attention so he turns to the more pressing problem. "No touching, huh?" He says it to reassure his brother that he understands the rule and also to make sure John knows what he's been doing wrong just in case he'd missed the neon signs and blaring clues.

Dean licks his bottom lip and it sticks out in a sad little pout. It's a rare expression on Dean's face and it takes Sam a minute to recognize it for the sorrow it implies. "The monster…it touched me a lot and I hated it so much. I hated it!" he exclaims vehemently.

"Hey, I get it." Sam says quietly. "What you went through was horrible and nasty. It might take some time before you start to feel better about things and that's perfectly okay. You just tell me what I need to do to make this better and I'll do it." He aches to place a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, but he dares not make a move before Dean is ready.

Dean tilts his head to the side, the look on his face one of anguish and need. Sam holds his breath for a moment and watches as two tears race down his brother's cheeks and then he can't stand it any longer. "Oh Dean…can I come get you…please?"

A broom is shoved into his line of sight just as Dean gives a hesitant nod. Sam looks up to see the remorseful grimace on John's face and the broom held out like some kind of bizarre peace offering. The man had disappeared at some point during his exchange with Dean and retrieved the broom from the closet, but Sam had been too involved to register when exactly his father had left. As soon as Sam takes hold of the broom John backs away, turns and walks out the front door of the apartment without a single glance over his shoulder as he goes. Sam doesn't want to speculate as to what the distance his dad has just put between himself and his sons might mean. Is John turning over all parental responsibilities or only temporary custody?

It only takes a couple of seconds to clear away the bare minimum amount of broken glass with the broom, nothing more than a narrow trail through the wreckage, and then Sam is standing next to his brother in a way that precludes the boy from getting up without assistance. Letting Dean fall face first into a pile of glass shards because he's still too weak to stand by himself is not on Sam's top ten list of things to do today. On the other hand, he refuses to make John's mistake of rushing Dean into 'getting over it'.

Dean pulls his pajama-clad legs up to his chest and clutches his knees tightly, but otherwise seems content to stay where he is on the floor against the counter looking at his toes. Sam holds out his hand, palm up, like he's approaching a scared puppy and is uncertain as to how much contact the pup will allow before it skitters away. A tendril of nervousness seeps across their bond. There's no place they need to be and nowhere they need to go so Sam waits for Dean to make the first move.

Eventually the tension dissolves and after studying Sam's hand for a while, Dean grasps it in both of his and leans forward until his cheek is resting lightly inside the curve of it. He seems to be pondering something, mulling things over. "It's different…warmer…drier...nicer." Dean mutters quietly under his breath and then presses his check more firmly against Sam's open palm.

Sam thinks about what Dean just said for a moment and when understanding flashes he chuckles softly. "Are you comparing me to a slime-encrusted monster? That's great. I'm glad to hear there aren't many similarities."

A watery smile is his answer, shy and unsure. The guilt is still there, slicing his brother up inside, and Sam knows he has to talk this one out sooner rather than later. There are so many things he wants to say.

"You need to know Dean, this wish – me turning into a grown up - it's not a sacrifice. It's not and I've never thought of it that way. Never! I made this wish because I love you, because even when I was four years old you were more important to me than anything else in the world. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Do you understand that Dean? You're everything to me. You're my whole reason for being here. I-I don't know what would happen to me if it weren't for you. I don't think I'll survive to be this size, to grow up for real, if I don't have you to look out for me." Sam gestures at his long legs and body.

A twin set of eyelashes flutter closed over green eyes and a sigh escapes parted lips as Dean relaxes. "Are you sure you don't mind? You shouldn't have to. I _wish_ you didn't have to."

With a sense of happiness Sam feels the guilt fade until his brother's inner turmoil reaches a more manageable level. "Dean, because of the wish our souls are entwined together, we're two halves of one whole, and we need to take care of each other."

"Sam, you know what I said earlier? About not wanting anyone to call me 'kiddo'?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Well, it's okay if you call me 'kiddo'. Only you. I mean you always have, from the very beginning the first time you turned big, and I know it's 'cause you love me. So…yeah, I want you to. Okay?" Dean is earnest and hopeful.

"If it's alright with you, I'd like that a lot," Sam smiles.

This is something just between them, one more thing they share only with each other, one more binding link in a very long chain.

Gently extracting his hand from Dean's grip, Sam helps his brother stand and when the boy leans against his leg as though he's having trouble finding his balance Sam lifts him up and carries him to the couch in the living room, Dean's legs wrapped around his waist and arms resting comfortably on his shoulders. They're easy together again, just as they always have been.

The front door clicks open, the ever present salt line across the threshold disturbed only slightly as John crosses carefully over it. They've all become accustomed to the unusual method of entering their home, wherever that may be, with a larger than normal step so they don't have to constantly retrace the salt lines.

The boys are startled by their father's arrival only because of his uncertain mood when he left. They hadn't been sure when to expect him back or whether he would be coming back at all. However, it's immediately apparent what the man had been doing while he was gone as soon as he begins speaking.

"I think I know why you haven't been eating Dean. It's because you can't eat, not because you aren't hungry. Am I right?" There's a pharmacy bag in his hand and a gleam in his eye as though John is pleased with the results of his outing. Perhaps he's just happy to have found something useful to do.

Dean nods from his spot next to Sam on the couch, watching his dad cautiously.

"That's what I thought." John goes on to ask. "Did any of the Bunyip's blood get in your mouth? Did you swallow any of it?"

"Yes," Dean hisses, his face a mask of disgust. "Every time I tried to talk it put its fingers in my mouth, down my throat. I bit them once and the blood…" Gagging, Dean burrows into Sam's side.

"Steady kiddo. It's over now, not gonna happen ever again," Sam sooths. He knows how easy it is for Dean to get drawn back to that nightmare place in his mind and all he needs is a grounding voice to remind him where he is now, home and safe.

John freezes at the mention of the forbidden nickname and darts shrewd glances between his two sons. When Dean doesn't blow up in anger, he shrugs one shoulder and holds up the paper bag, the product of his earlier excursion. The bag rustles as he gives it a triumphant little shake. "It's the blood in your stomach that's keeping you from being able to eat. Little known fact about Bunyips. The stuff adheres to the lining of your stomach, blocks anything else from getting in or out, forces your body to reject even the thought of food. So we just need to get rid of the blood. That's were this comes in." A brown bottle is removed and the bag discarded on a nearby table. "Syrup of Ipecac. Sorry Dean, we're going to have to make you throw it up."

This news is met with Dean's typical stoic expression, one part reserved indifference and two parts flippant devil-may-care. Sam can't be fooled any longer though, if he ever could, because he can feel Dean's horror, although he's not sure what part of his father's speech bothers his brother the most; the Bunyip's blood coating his insides or the fact that he's going to have to surrender to the frailty brought on by being sick to his stomach.

The best way to get through this is to pretend like it's no big deal, get it over with quick like ripping off a Band-Aid and it's over before you know it. The longer they spend thinking about it the worse it'll be. With that in mind Sam coaxes Dean into sitting up straight. "C'mon this'll be easy. Ten minutes max and the whole thing will be done." He chafes Dean's arm lightly, cognizant of the still raw skin, but wanting to reassure the boy as best as he can that there's nothing to worry about.

John reads over the label, unscrews the bottle and measures out a capful, handing it to Dean apologetically. "Down the hatch."

Despite his trepidation, Dean takes the cap from his dad and eyes it warily.

"On three, ready? One…two…three." Sam coaches.

The boy makes a choking sound, but tips the cap against his lips and swallows the entire mouthful, shuddering once he is done.

Motioning to the hallway, John says, "Bathroom, fast. It won't take long to work."

It turns out the man knows what he's talking about because they no sooner reach the tiny room, Sam supporting his listing brother, than Dean is hacking and puking up a dark purplish-black mass into the toilet. He's shaking so hard Sam is basically holding him upright while Dean quakes and moans and heaves, glob after glob of Bunyip blood appearing in the bowl. Sam suspects the vile stuff of multiplying and expanding in Dean's stomach. There's no way he could have swallowed that much of it.

"That's it. You got it. Almost done." Sam murmurs a stream of mindless encouragement, saying anything that comes to mind for the sole purpose of giving his brother something to hold onto in his misery. It's the most pitiful sight Sam has ever had the misfortune to witness and he hates himself a little bit for being any part of talking Dean into this, even if it is necessary and for his own good.

True to Sam's word, ten minutes later it's over and he carries Dean, now limp and beyond weary, to his bed and tucks him under the comforter.

"He needs to eat right away. We have crackers, right? And juice? I'll get them." John doesn't wait for an answer, instead heading immediately to the kitchen.

Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, slowly carding his fingers through his brother's hair when John comes in carrying a box of crackers and a mug full of orange juice. Their dad stops in the doorway, stares at the two of them and shakes his head. "How do you do that?" He whispers and he sounds kind of sad and kind of wistful.

Puzzled, Sam asks, "Do what?"

"Nothing. Forget about it." John clears his throat, hands the box and mug to Sam. "See if you can get him to eat and drink."

"How 'bout it? You ready to give this a try?" The crackers are a dry saltine-type generic brand. Sam hands a couple of them to Dean who stuffs them into his mouth with still shaking hands. The juice goes down next and then Dean holds his hand out for more crackers.

Sam watches his brother eat and has to give credit where credit is due, John may not have many parenting skills, but he knows his supernatural lore and cures. The Bunyip blood is gone and Dean will soon be able to regain his strength now that he's eating. It strikes Sam that he and John actually make a pretty good child rearing team, one of them handles the emotional, supportive aspects and the other handles the physical, training aspects. But then he has to laugh at the idea because really, it's ridiculous.

Cracker crumbs cover the comforter and Dean falls asleep with one cracker clutched in his hand. Chuckling quietly, Sam retrieves the cracker and brushes the crumbs onto the floor. He can vacuum them up later.

"Are you going to stay in here with him? He should be fine now. No need to watch him." The bed dips as John settles on Dean's other side.

"He usually sleeps better if someone is close by." Sam explains.

A thoughtful frown appears on John's face. "Hmmm, well you're good with him, anyone can see that."

Sometimes I wonder…" John sighs. "He's different. You've changed him, I've noticed it. Ever since your wish he's gotten - I don't know how to describe it - just different…softer maybe."

Sam knows what John is talking about. He's noticed it too. But unlike John, he doesn't think it's a bad thing at all. It's like some of the defensive mannerisms and barriers are falling away and the real Dean is ever so gradually emerging.

"I understand what you're saying, but you're wrong." Sam shakes his head. "I'm not the one changing him, you are."

John grunts. "How do you figure?"

"Look, I'm not saying this to be argumentative, I don't want to fight with you." Sam shrugs. "Just think about it. You're raising him to believe everyone and everything is more important than him, than what he wants and who he is. Almost as though his life is expendable. And he wants to please you, he loves you, so he hides how he feels and tries to become what you want him to be."

John's eye's well up. "He's always had a strong moral compass. Wanted to do the right thing from the time he was your age…or, you know what I mean."

"Exactly! At his core Dean is an affectionate little boy who cares deeply about those he loves and would do anything for them. And you're warping that, bending and twisting him to fit in a mold of your choosing. God dad, he's sensitive and funny and if he seems softer to you now I can only surmise it's because he's shedding little pieces of the protective armor he's built around his heart. He makes me think of a penny that's been handled too much, corrosion making it dull, but when it's polished up, it shines." Sam beseeches his father to understand with his eyes.

"I do what I do for a reason, Sam. I toughen him up to keep him alive and to help protect you. There's a lot of evil out there, no matter how much we might wish otherwise, that's never going to change."

"Yeah well, I'm not saying don't train him. He enjoys it and he's good at that stuff. I'm just saying let him know he matters every once in a while. You'd be surprised how far a little praise goes with him." Sam looks down at Dean's peacefully sleeping face, brushes a few stray cracker crumbs off his chin and smiles fondly.

John nods and stands, apparently done with the conversation. Sam counts it as a win that they got as far as they did

Enjoying the quiet of the room once their dad has left, Sam begins to make a list. The time he has with his brother when he's an adult normally revolves around catastrophe and trouble. The time after, when the trouble has been vanquished, is fleeting and therefore precious. He has to use it wisely. He wants to try to leave something lasting for Dean for once he changes back into the younger brother again, something that he wouldn't think to do or wouldn't be able to do as a five year old. His mental list looks like this:

Go to the school and meet Dean's teacher.

Take Dean somewhere for the sheer fun of it (no ulterior training motive).

Cook a big family dinner (vegetables included).

Help Dean get caught up on his school work.

Give Dean the best piggy back ride of his life.

He hopes he can get through the list before his time runs out and even though he doesn't want for there to be a next time because that will mean Dean's in danger or hurt or sick, he kind of does want for there to be a next time just so he can have the chance to check up on him and make sure John stays in line.

The End.

**A/N: I have definite ideas for two more stories in this 'verse as Dean and Sam get older and the wish evolves to accommodate the age changes. I would love to hear any ideas you have or directions you would like to see any following stories take. Readers' ideas frequently make their way into my stories, so leave me a private message with your thoughts or leave them in a review. Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Reviews are adored.**


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